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y : ' 

To. 741 Harold Vallings 50 Cents 

At the Post-OfBce at New York, as Second-class Mail Matter. Issued Monthly. Subscription Price per Year, 13 Nos., |7.50. 

THE TRANSGRESSION OF 
TERENCE CLANCY 

a Noocl 


BY 

HAROLD VALLINOS 



NEW YOEK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

December, 1893 


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THE TRANSGRESSION OF 
TERENCE CLANCY 


a Vlovel 



HAROLD VALLINGS 

It 


14 ^ 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 



1893 








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THE 


TRANSGRESSION OF TERENCE CLANCY 


CHAPTER I 

Down by Chilling Water, where a great brown moor ends abrupt- 
ly in a deep combe, and oak coppices feather down from the bald 
foreheads of the hills as though to embrace and shelter the laughing 
river, stands Little Chillington. It is a market town, with a high 
respect for itself, as being picturesque, well to do, and the centre of a 
large district; and also as possessing many historical associations. 
Its climate is said by strangers to be enervating, and admitted by 
local persons of exceptional candor to be a little damp towards the 
end of a wet winter. Yet the place has thriven pretty well during 
several centuries, and now boldly fronts the gaze of travellers by the 
down express trains, with its two churches, the ancient Gothic and 
the modern Romanesque, its old ivy-clad town-hall, and many desir- 
able villas straggling up the steep hills from the clustered roofs of 
the lower town. 

Upon this comely little place the June sun was blazing one after- 
noon not so very long ago, and very peaceful and slumberous it looked. 
Nothing but the leaping stream seemed to have life and motion. Not 
a soul was visible in the broad space by the town-hall, or even on 
Chillington bridge, the chosen lounging-place of a talkative town ; 
while down on the emerald strip of meadow beyond the houses the 
lazy red cattle dozed and chewed undisturbed. The place, in its 
present aspect, seemed to justify the popular conception of a coun- 
try townsman as a creature belonging rather to the vegetable than 
the animal kingdom — a nerveless, lifeless being, with slow sap creep- 
ing through his system in place of warm life-blood. Yet it is but a 
mock peace, a mirage of stagnation, that broods over the quietest of 
country towns. In the moon one reads of a great plain called “ Mare 
Tranquillitatis,” but in our own planet we find neither sea, nor plain, 
1 


2 


nor any corner of absolute tranquillity — or, at least, one must go far- 
ther than Chillington to find so desirable a haven. 

This afternoon, for instance, in the very first house of the town, 
as you approach it from below — the humble, ugly stuccoed little 
place that abuts upon the river-side meadows — there was going for- 
ward, as we shall presently hear, a conversation betraying discontent 
and other human weaknesses by no means consonant with a state of 
idyllic peace. 

The house was at present occupied by one of Chillington’s many 
doctors. The little place, embracing in its neighborhood many moor- 
land and sub-moorland villages, supported quite a nosegay of medi- 
cal men ; and this was the youngest of the bunch, the last impor- 
tation from London, who at present blushed unseen, his practice 
consisting mainly of unpaid work seasoned by hope. His name was 
John Syme, and he was just now engaged in lounging upon the 
sill of his open parlor window, alternately discoursing with a friend 
and gazing out at the lazy cattle in the meadow below. 

The sunlit landscape offered little attraction to John Syme. JIo 
would sooner have looked out upon a street — a place with some life 
in it, with small boys jeering and fighting, and dogs getting lashed 
now and then by passing drivers. Nor did his general appearance 
suggest any leanings towards the idyllic or pastoral ; indeed, he was 
simply a broad-backed, thick-lipped young man, with a rollicking, 
toss-pot air about him, though withal a waggishness that went far to 
redeem his coarseness. He was no model, you might have said at 
once, for an artist of the yearning school ; yet Franz Hals would 
have liked him well enough, and perhaps have immortalized Jack 
Syme as a jolly drinker, pewter in hand and clay pipe in mouth. 

The parlor outside which Jack’s legs were dangling was a common 
little room, with scanty furniture of a vivid grass -green; and, in 
spite of the open window, was sufficiently malodorous, its whiskey 
fumes chastely blending with a powerful combination of smells wafted 
from the small surgery across the passage. As he drummed his heels 
against the wall of his mansion, he was smoking a short black pipe, 
and listening with his half-jocular, half-insolent grin to the talk of a 
friend who sat inside. 

“ Go on, Terepce,” he exclaimed, when the other voice ceased for 
a moment ; “ give us more of your blarney, for ’tis mighty refresh- 
ing. Your talk is like fizzing drink to me in this dull hole, where 
nothing ever happens. And I’m precious lucky to get your com- 
pany for an hour now you’re so mighty popular, ain’t I, Terence? 


3 


Why, hang me, if you could be more sought after with a fine prop- 
erty and twenty thousand a year ! You’re making quite a splash in 
the neighborhood, ain’t you, me boy ? Thick with all the big coun- 
ty people ; staying at Monks Damerel Hall with the great Sir Hamo 
himself ; his son your intimate friend, loving you like a brother and 
shoving you into the arms of great ladies like Mrs. French-Chich- 
ester. Aha ! you’re exploiting the district, prospecting for a prac- 
tice, as I know very well ; making wonderful strides, too, with the 
ladies all in a flutter about your winning laugh and piquant brogue. 
And the picturesque figure you cut, with the bit o’ land in old Ire- 
land to talk about ; the poor tenants who mustn’t be squeezed ; the 
poverty patiently borne in consequence! A mighty pretty figure, 
indeed, a sort of fairy - tale prince done into real flesh and blood, 
damme 1” 

There was a laugh from within, full of mirth and sunny good- 
temper ; at once rich and soft, and far too fine for that vulgar little 
chamber. 

“ Yet I don’t fear you, Terence, old boy. You’re a love’s-young- 
dream of a doctor — too bright, too fair to last ; too gentle and pleas- 
ing and pretty for this cold, hard world.” 

Again the bright laugh, brimming over as with spring sunshine. 

“ There, there. Jack Syme, don’t be for trying sarcasm. Fat beasts 
shouldn’t gambol, but just chew on respectably, as you see them do- 
ing by the stream yonder.” 

Syme grinned again, then laughed boisterously. 

“Terence, if I’m a fat beast, you’re just the shallow stream he 
drinks from ; bright and sparkling as the Chilling Water, also swift- 
changing, hard to catch hold of, and mighty shallow in some places! 
Ah, I know you, Terence. I know your little game. You’re angling 
for a practice down here.” 

“ A man must live. Jack.” 

“ Aye, and a man of our sort must live well. We like refined 
society ; we have a taste for captivating people and being made much 
of. We like horse-flesh, and know how to spend royally in several 
directions. Our practice must be good to support all this. And 
then there’s one thing we don’t like, and that’s the most important 
factor in the situation— hard work.” 

“ Ye’re jealous. Jack Syme. By the powers, ye’re a jealous ox !” 

But Syme only knocked the ashes out of his pipe and laughed the 
louder; for certainly his friend possessed that kind of witchery 
which gives a man the privilege of free speech to all and sundry, and 


4 


makes it as difficult for him to give offence as for a pretty child or 
a fascinating woman. From the lips of Terence Clancy even an ac- 
cusation seemed to tinkle like a compliment. 

“Jealous?” Jack Syme continued. “Yes, jealous of your popu- 
larity and powers of fascination, confound you ! but not profession- 
ally so, Terence. Jealous as a fellow-man and a fellow-fool, but not as 
a doctor. Because, mind you, I don’t believe in your future success. 
You have pace of the lightning order, but no stay. That’s where 
we Saxon tyrants beat you; we’re stolid, hard, unsympathetic over 
here, but we’re dogged. You have the brightness and blarney of the 
Emerald Isle, but no sticking-power, no grip. And I think there’s a 
hole where your moral principle ought to be, though I’m not sure 
yet—” 

“ Thanks for the doubt. Go on, Jack ; don’t mind my feelings.” 

“ Now, mark me,” cried the other, striking fist on knee and lean- 
ing forward, “ you’re throwing a line on blank water. You’ll never 
live by the profession. There’s only one way of getting the easy life 
your nature craves for and will have^ and that’s well-gilt matri- 
mony.” 

“I’m thinking you’re right. Jack.” There was a sudden almost 
feminine change of tone in Terence’s voice. “ I hate work — true for 
you there — and money won’t come without it. Yet there’s neither 
rest nor peace without cash, for the hair-shirt of a poor gentleman 
pricks wofully, and has to be worn night and day. What twist in 
the universe is it that makes human happiness dependent upon 
filthy lucre? Cash — pshaw ! how I hate the word. Yet without this 
hateful cash life’s just a treadmill, a jog-jog-jogging along a miser- 
able rut of sordid care and mean endeavor, and bitter grudging of 
one’s neighbor’s luck. We poor men, I vow, are no better than 
ravening wolves, snapping and snarling for the bits that fall from 
rich men’s tables. Look at me up at the Hall — living on the fat of 
the land, treated like a prince, turning an amiable smile upon every 
one, and all the time consumed with sneaking envy of Simon Secre- 
tan’s big money-bags and broad acres. Faugh ! my life up there is 
nothing but a day-long hypocrisy ! And the glow and beauty of 
life are no more for us, Jack, than the material good things. Upon 
me conscience, I feel sometimes that, as a genteel pauper, I shouldn’t 
look too long at a sunset sky ! And as for romance, a poor devil 
like me can’t afford it. I’ll have to marry the first rich old hag 
that’s fool enough to have me. Jack. I’ve been looking round a bit 
lately,” he continued, with a quaint glance, half naive, half sly; 


6 


“ foiS you see, I’ve been introduced to half the county, thanks to 
Simon Secretan, who is so anxious to push me into a practice. 
There s Mrs. French-Chichester, now. She seems to like me a bit, 
in spite of my carrots.” 

“ Won t do, Terence ; won’t do at any price. She has taken you 
up latel}^, I know ; but she’ll drop you again like a red-hot coal in a 
month or two. Besides, you’d never stick to an old woman like 
that'; you must have youth and beauty, as well as cash, to keep you 
straight. Master Terence.” 

“ Find me the possessor of all three, Jack, and I’ll try to put up 
with her.” 

“ I have found her.” 

“ You’re joking?” 

“On the contrary, I am about to put you up to a good thing, and 
at the same time satisfy a little private grudge of my own. There’s 
more of spite than of jest about me, I assure you.” 

“ Who is it. Jack ? Who’s your beauty-heiress ? I smell romance ; 
and any little jog to the nerves will be acceptable this weather.” 

“You haven’t met the Tredethlyns yet?” 

“ No ; they have been away ever since my arrival in these parts. 
But I believe they have just returned, and Secretan, who will be 
home again to-night is going to introduce me as soon as possible.” 

“Mr. Tredethlyn is uncommonly well off. I believe there’ll be 
four or five thousand a year to divide between his two daughters.” 

“ You’re thinking of Miss Tredethlyn, then ?” 

“Certainly not. Miss Kate's a deal too proud to look at a 
country doctor, and would see through you in no time. I’m think- 
ing of Miss Nell, the favorite — the dark-eyed, dainty little Nell.” 

“ Don’t you know that she’s engaged to Simon Secretan ?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“Then what’s the use of my thinking of her?” 

“ All the use in the world. She doesn’t care for him, and is con- 
sequently all the more assailable than if perfectly free — or I don’t 
know human nature.” 

“ But he’s my friend — the man who has loaded me with kindness. 
God’s truth, man ! do you think me such a sneak and a cur as to — 
to — ” There was a loud bang as Clancy started to his feet and his 
chair fell backward. 

Syme looked out for a moment over the broad meadows, and his 
teeth gleamed. Then Terence strode to the window, and for the 
first time became clearly visible. 


He was striking looking, if only for his dazzling complexion, fair 
and bright as a young girl’s, flushed now with a quick, generous 
wrath that became him well. A man of quick emotions, as any 
one could see at a glance; warm-hearted, responsive, sympathetic. 
There was something appealing in his face, too, especially about the 
delicate, sensitive mouth — a look almost of deprecation, as of one 
anxious for your good opinion ; meaning well, yet wanting your help 
to carry out his meaning. Not a strictly handsome man, but rather 
what they used to call a “pretty fellow,” with the rich red-brown 
hair that belonged so naturally to his fair skin and Irish eyes. 

“Do you mean to say I’m a sneak?” he cried again, his eyes 
flashing. 

“ Oh, we’re so deuced honorable, ain’t we ?” jeered Syme. 

“Do you dare to say I’m not honorable ?” 

“ There, be quiet, Pat — no need for hysterics yet. Just listen to 
reason now. I say again, the girl doesn’t care for him. Secretan is 
a sort of Quixote, worshipping the ground she treads on, and so 
bores her, as a matter of course. It doesn’t do to worship a woman, 
as he’ll discover soon enough. I haven’t a doubt but that she’ll jilt 
him ; and as you’re too squeamish to step in, some one else will 
collar the stakes, that’s all.” 

“ I’ll never do a shabby trick by old Simon ; he has been a good 
friend to me.” 

“ And a good enemy to me, Terence, so that I have a fine, round, 
full-grown spite against him. He has called me names, and hindered 
my achievement of a practice by his damned interference with other 
people’s concerns, and one of these days I’ll be even with him. 
‘ Hard words break no bones,’ they say ; but they are apt to stop 
the daily bread of a general practitioner for all that — and hunger 
sharpens a man’s spite, let me tell you.” 

“ Well, don’t abuse old Simon in my presence, for it hurts my 
feelings,' Jack. Now I want to ask you about this trout-license 
question ; for it seems that I ought to have a ticket, though, as the 
water is Secretan’s, I have been fishing it for the last fortnight with- 
out one.” 

“ Go to Ezekiel Doidge, at No. 50 High Street. He’s secretary 
of the Angling Association, as of everything else, and will order 
you about to your heart’s content.” 

“ All right ; and I must be making a start now, old chap.” 
Clancy’s face was cloudless again already. He stood at the open 
window, the afternoon sun blazing upon his sunny face. “ Faith, 


1 


’tis a bright world, Jack Syme. Look at the children just free 
from school, racing along by the stream ! Look at the dancing 
water, and the jolly red cattle, and summer haze brooding over the 
woods yonder, and the grand moors rolling away above them ! Ah ! 
I’d like to settle down here and never see a big town again.” 

In reply to this outburst Syme only grunted, pulling at his dirty 
clay pipe— 

“I’d rather live in a slum with a decent income than — ” 

“ Silence, you Goth ! That’s John Bull all over, with the shop 
and the till always pulling at his heartstrings. There, good-bye. 
Jack.” 

Jack Syme stood looking after his friend with puzzled frown. 

“ Can’t make him out,” he muttered ; “ don’t half know him yet. 
He’s a deuced taking fellow, fascinating as a pretty woman ; but — 
but what ? I don’t know what. I think he’ll have an eye on the 
Tredethlyn girls from this date. I think he’ll fail with Kate, and 
then? Then will come the rub; we shall see whether Miss Nell’s 
eyelashes, backed by two thousand a year and her other fascinations, 
will modify his sense of honor, cool the ardor of his conscience 
somewhat. Maybe not; yet, in Secretan’s place, I wouldn’t trust 
mine own familiar friend too absolutely. Clancy’s sympathies are 
too quick, his emotions too facile and tender, his complexion too 
good. And he has the additional, perhaps crowning, attraction of 
poverty — a virtue of itself sufficient to stir the pulse of any romantic 
young woman. Yes, in Secretan’s place, I certainly would have a 
plainer, or a richer, or a harder -hearted friend about me just 
now ; say, for choice, some eligible landed proprietor, with bad 
teeth and gooseberry eyes ; and, to make assurance doubly sure, one 
that was silent, diffident, humble-minded, and the possessor of every 
virtue under heaven !” 


CHAPTER II 


About a couple of miles outside the town of Chillington lay a 
compact little property called Moor Gates, in the heart of which was 
a small country mansion, the home of the Rev. Polwhele Tredethlyn 
and his two daughters. 

Mr. Tredethlyn was a large, good-natured, picturesquely idle man, 
who, having once occupied the post of vicar to a country parish, con- 
taining quite five hundred souls, had ever since conceived of him- 
self as an overworked man enjoying a well-earned repose ; one who 
had some claim to a quiet haven after patiently undergoing his al- 
lotted quota of “ the weariness, the fever, and the fret.” Rumor de- 
clared that in his youth he had been an athlete, which made it the 
more advisable for him to exert himself gently in late middle age; 
perhaps, indeed, that youthful athleticism had produced, by way of 
natural reaction, the quietude which now distinguished the comfort- 
able squire-parson. It is certain that he resented nothing more than 
the imputation of laziness, that the occasional passages of temper 
which took place between him and his elder daughter Kate resulted 
from a suspected disposition on her part to regard her father as a 
thought too idle, and a shade too much given to pathetic analysis 
of his dyspeptic symptoms. In truth, Mr. Tredethlyn was no idler. 
He would preach sometimes for the vicar, when pressed at bland 
moments, and always preached well ; he would speak from the 
platform of the town-hall at public meetings without any pressing 
at all, almost; and a Chillington audience was never better pleased 
than when confronted by his genial countenance. 

The quiet haven of Moor Gates had become a possibility when 
Mr. Tredethlyn took to himself a wife of ample means ; nor had 
the moorland anchorage become less easeful when the wife in due 
course paid the debt of nature, leaving him with Kate — whose 
temper was occasionally a little trying — to remind him of herself, 
and so give spice to existence, and Nell to make much of, revere, 
and spoil him. 

The little place suited both Kate and himself admirably, having 
its own little shady drive watched over by a miniature lodge on the 


9 


Monks Damerel road, its miniature park well timbered and secluded, 
its garden embraced on three sides by the grand desolation of the 
moor. It fitted in with his liking for peace and quiet, as well as, 
by its smallness, with a certain weakness he had for living well 
within his income ; while Kate’s chief vanity was ministered to by 
its air of refined propriety. Ostentation she cared nothing for, her 
pride finding outlets of a superior nature; but an environment at 
once dignified, decorous, and of a countified complexion she con- 
sidered her natural due. 

Kate’s boudoir, for instance, was a model of what she considered 
correct — a small chamber full of comfort and ease and color — the 
newest art-color as a matter of course. Even the light of day was 
too common for admittance in its crude state, but had first to be 
tempered and refined by draperies of pallid green or ochreons yellow. 
Her father might do as he pleased with his study, but this boudoir 
was a sacred spot, the abode of half tones, fashionable magazines, 
and little feminine elegances. Sitting here, with the smooth lawn 
flowing up to the windows, and a distant view of the Chilling vale 
peeping through the laurels, Kate could realize to the full the breadth 
that separated her from the good folks of Chillington — supposing^ 
that is, any artificial aid were necessary to a perception already suf- 
ficiently clear in this direction. 

In this dainty little chamber Kate Tredethlyn happened to be 
standing about the time when she and her sister were being talked 
over in Jack Syme’s odorous parlor. She was watching through 
the French windows for the pony-carriage to pass round from the 
stables; but her looks suggested that she had something more than 
the ponies and trap upon her mind. She was a tall, black-browed, 
handsome girl, and just at present finely posed from an artistic point 
of view, with a warm light from the southwest flowing round her; 
but the dark brows were drawn together and the eyes looked sullen. 
It was clear that Miss Tredethlyn was not in her best mood ; and 
evidently the glimpses she occasionally caught of her father lounging 
about just out of tongue-shot, and looking remarkably cool and com- 
fortable, had a far from soothing effect upon her. She would have 
been glad to get him within range for a moment, just to go into one 
or two household questions with him. And he was quite aware of 
her wish. Indeed, the large parson took a boyish delight in tanta- 
lizing Kate now and then, and thus revenging himself for past pun- 
ishing moments. By choosing the laurelled path for his contem- 
plative cigar just now, he was able to add the pleasure of retaliation 


10 


to that of smoking good tobacco ; and, after a busy two hours spent 
in superintending a gardener from the depths of a cane chair, he was 
thoroughly in tune for a double enjoyment. 

In point of fact, Kate’s frame of mind was akin to that in which 
young men mutter bad words and reject feminine sympathy ; for 
she had a task before her, and one none the less unpleasant from the 
consciousness that it ought to have been faced before, and must now 
be hustled through without due dignity and decorum. “ I have 
had two whole months to do it in,” she was reflecting, with vicious 
tugs at her left glove, “ and now there’s just one half-hour left. 
Nell, I’m going to have it out with you, and I would rather — rather 
go through a tea-party with every bore in the neighborhood in full 
talk.” 

Before that left glove was quite moulded on, and her mind half 
braced up to the necessary pitch, Kate’s sister entered the room. 

Nell looked charming, as a matter of course, in a crisp white sum- 
mer gown and a big hat bent about into cunning curves and subtle 
hollows. She was built on a slighter, more delicate scale than her 
sister, but her coloring was as sumptuous as Kate’s, her style gentler 
and more winning. Altogether, Nell Tredethlyn seemed a person to 
love and to swear by, rather than to quarrel with. 

“Yet I must quarrel with her,” mused Kate; “and \will — so 
there’s an end of it.” Aloud she said, sharply, “Late again, Nell, 
and a lover waiting! What will your tender conscience say, my 
dear, if you’re five seconds late on the platform ?” 

“ But we sha’n’t be late, so my conscience can have a holiday.” 

“Holiday? It has just had two months’ holiday, and so will be 
in fine working order, I fear.” 

This was Kate’s first shot — a trial of the range, as it were. Nell 
had been separated from Simon Secretan, her betrothed, for just two 
months, and the remark was made in a pointed way which left no 
doubt as to Kate’s meaning. 

Nell looked astonished and pained. A peculiar constraint fell 
upon them both. 

Kate stared hard at a photograph, not seeing it in the least, but 
preparing for another shot. Before she could fire it, however, the 
pony-carriage passed the window, and she promptly led the way 
across the hall, somewhat relieved at the thought of a practical task 
—for those smart black-browns of hers wanted some driving — as 
likely to steady her nerves. 

As soon as they were seated the black-browns bounded off with a 


11 


jerk, and whirled them down the short drive in a trice. But Kate 
pulled them up, kicking and plunging, at the lodge gate, and said, 
hastily : 

“ By-the-bye, Nell, before I drive you to meet the train, I bargain 
to drop you at the station door. You must face Sir Galahad alone, 
for I’m in the wrong mood for him to-day. If this arrangement 
won’t suit you. I’ll jump out and you can take Charles.” 

“ Very well ; you can drop me at the door.” Nell’s curtness 
matched her sister’s. 

Then Kate gave both ponies a vicious lash, thus insuring some 
hard work for her hands and wrists, set her teeth, and prepared for 
a plunge. 

“ Nell, I’ve got something on my mind.” 

“What is it?” 

“ A sister — a most tiresome, quixotic, infatuated, extravagantly 
conscientious little creature called Nell.” 

“ What is the matter with Nell ?” 

Both girls were somewhat flushed; both spoke and looked straight 
to the front, their glances declining to meet. 

“ I’ll tell you what is the matter with you, Nell — a swelled con- 
science. You have a tendency that way. Your conscience takes up 
too much room in your general constitution, and has a bad habit of 
getting further swollen through inflammation.” 

“ I don’t understand you in the least.” 

“Nell, will you admit that you’ve been happier these last eight 
weeks, while we’ve been away, than during the whole past twelve 
months?” 

“ No ; I’ll admit nothing of the sort.” 

“You’ve betrayed all the outward symptoms of good spirits, at 
any rate; but perhaps that was only by w^ay of mask? Perhaps 
your depression this morning was another mask ? If so, this subtle 
hypocrisy is a new phase in you— very new to me, I assure you. 
Luckily, however. Sir Galahad’s tolerably blind.” 

“ You can abuse me if you like, Kate ; but I won’t stand a word 
against Am/” 

This spurt of anger from her sister gave Kate just the lift she 
needed, rousing her own temper to the pitch requisite for plain 
speaking. 

“ I’m just as conscious of his merits as you, Nell ; he’s a sort of 
Sir Galahad, Don Quixote, and Romney Leigh — all rolled into one; 
and it is just because he is so, and that your much the same thing. 


12 


though in petticoats, that 1 want to separate you. He worships you 
and you like him. It is an old story, and in most cases the arrange- 
ment suits admirably. In yours it never can. You are a brace of 
fanatics. You can’t give him all he asks — which is your whole 
heart, soul, and mind — and so you’re unhappy. What will be your 
state when you’ve married him, I should like to know ; when your 
shortcomings stare you in the face every day and all day, instead of 
now andithen? If he only were fanatical, well and good; but you 
are both tarred with the same brush. Now’, listen, this is the be- 
ginning, middle, and end of the whole matter. You’ve got it in 
you to care for a man a great deal, yet have vainly tried for a whole 
year to care for him a little !” 

Kate glanced round at her sister for a moment. There were 
angry tears starting from Nell’s eyes. 

’ “Yes, I could cry, too,” she continued, sternly. “I could whim- 
per like a child, if that were any good. A splendid match ! AVho 
could realize that more fully than a cynical respecter of persons like 
me? As Lady Secretan you might lead the county ; you would roll 
in riches, your life w’ould be all cushions and brocade. And yet, 
with all my appreciation of these things, with all my abominable 
worldliness, I want you to cry off ! My sentiments are those of a 
Barnes Newcome, yet I want you to back out of the best match in 
the county ! Now', doesn’t it occur to you that there must be some 
powerful instinct at work thus to metamorphose a worldling into a 
sentimentalist? I’ll go further; I’ll admit that Simon is not only a 
good part% but a fine fellow as well, which just serves to make mat- 
ters worse, gives emphasis to your lukewarmness, despoils you of all 
excuse. Nell, you’re simply heaping up wTetchedness for him and 
for yourself !” 

After this outpouring — a most unusual incident in the relations 
between the sisters — Kate turned off her course up a narrow by-lane, 
saying, grimly, “ Neither of us is fit to be seen on the public high- 
way just now ; and there are just ten minutes left to have it out in, 
Nell.” 

“ I tell you flatly that I will never give up Simon.” 

“ Ah ! I never hoped you would. I’ve done my duty, at any 
rate, and my mind’s relieved.” 

“ If I make a elean breast, tell you the whole truth once for all, 
will you promise me never to allude to this again ?” 

“ My dear, will a prisoner promise to pick oakum no more if 
once set free ?” 


13 


“ Then I’ll admit what I have never yet done to a human soul, 
and never will again — that my love for Simon is but lukewarm, and 
that I hate myself for it.” 

Katie raised her eyebrows mockingly, but said nothing. 

“ But, Kate, I do care for him, and my best hope is that in time 
I shall care for him as he deserves. It is impossible, impossible,” 
cried Nell, her cheeks flaming, “ that any girl should go on accept- 
ing the love of a man like that without learning to return it ! My 
heart is set upon returning it; it is a point of honor with me, the 
thing I long for most in the world, that I pray for before all other 
things.” 

“ Well, thank goodness I have none of your intensity to trouble 
me,” said Kate, with a distracted sigh ; “ for, hampered with such a 
temperament as yours, I should have pined away and died at ten 
years old ! I really don’t know what’s to be done with you ! How 
would it be to send you out as a governess? I fancy twelve months 
of a situation in a genteel Low-Church family might rationalize you 
a bit. I wonder the doctors don’t invent a drug for the cure of 
over-conscientiousness — the cancer that eats into the heart of our 
sex, and, what is worse still, makes us spoil the men so abominably !” 

“ I’m sorry I confessed at all, now !” cried Nell, angrily. 

“Don’t mention it, my dear; I shall manage to bear up against 
it pretty well — especially as I’ve known the whole story for months; 
moreover, it interests me to see how deep into lunacy a woman will 
wade, if given rope enough. Proceed, my dear child, I’m all ears.” 

“I’ve quite done, Kate.” 

“ Finished already ? — and I had composed myself to listen for 
half an hour. . . . I’m obliged to joke, little Nell, because I’m so 
vexed, do you see? And I should like to abuse Simon, because it’s 
so aggravating to have to admire him. I do admire him, though I 
try not ; but I wish he had never seen you. I wish he had given 
his heart to some good, wholesome, selfish creature like myself, 
who’d have put it in her pocket along with his last present, and 
have thought no more about either. However, though you’re a 
tiresome child. I’ll forgive you this time. Kiss me, little Nell. 
There, if I don’t turn the ponies at once, I shall be getting senti- 
mental.” 

Back again into the main road, then forward with a rush and a 
clatter. People who saw the pony-carriage coming, and thought to 
get a look at the handsome Miss Tredethlyns, hardly caught a 
glimpse for the dust and the speed as they whirled past. Round 


14 


the corner by the smithy rushed the black-browns, and down the 
steep hill into the yard at a pace calculated to astonish even those 
accustomed to Miss Tredethlyn’s driving. The ponies smoked 
again as they were pulled up at the station door, just behind Sir 
Galahad’s dog-cart. 


CHAPTER III 


In a few minutes’ time the down express had arrived and depart- 
ed, and Nell was strolling gently down the hill beside her tall lover. 
The latter having got rid of his servant and trap, and all his luggage, 
save a few articles that were now bulging out his pockets, they had 
before them two clear hours — for which Sir Galahad had stipulated 
in his last letter — before going back to prosaic existence and the 
society of rational persons. 

There was no need for Nell to ask whither they were bound, for 
she was tolerably certain that Simon would follow a favorite route. 
He would first take her over the town bridge and down the river- 
bank by the vicarage garden, because he must needs have a look at 
the little town in order to feel thoroughly at home again; and after- 
wards into his own woods of Hollacomb, because they were redolent 
of sweet association with herself. 

As they passed down the steep hill, with the little town spread 
out before them, the rush of Chilling Water greeted Secretan with 
the voice of an old friend. The Chilling vale, with its farmsteads 
and town, had in fact an appeal for him, not only from sentimental 
and aesthetic points of view, but as being a kind of bank in which 
he had invested a good deal of money, much of his heart, and most 
of the energy of his young manhood. For Simon Secretan was a 
practical philanthropist — at least, a philanthropist in fact, and a prac- 
tical one in intention. No living person had given more thought 
and pains to the welfare of the little hive of human beings towards 
which he was bending his steps ; and, as for the issue of his good 
endeavors, something might come of them some day or other; for 
already there might have been found in the place one or two per- 
sons capable of praising Mr. Secretan, and two or three more who 
only described him as a tiresome fanatic in deference to public opin- 
ion, or to please a neighbor. 

At the bottom of the hill was Chillington bridge, fringed as 
usual with a double rank of summertide loungers, who happened to 
be looking rather brisk and expectant just now, since the arrival of 
the down express was (^uite the event of the day. At this hour an 


16 


interesting review was to be looked for — the march past of two 
hotel omnibuses, and perhaps a dozen passengers from London. 
Torpid old gaffers who had leaned over the parapet all day, allow- 
ing the flowing water to do their thinking for them, would perk up 
at this time and look almost like conversation, though seldom get- 
ting to the length of actual words. 

Most of the loungers touched their hats as Nell and Secretan 
[)assed, and a gentle trickle of remarks followed upon their passage ; 
nothing very eulogistic or the reverse, however, for Chillington 
bridge viewed things largely and calmly, with an aristocratic dis- 
taste for any display of enthusiasm. Moreover, Secretan was too ec- 
centric, too earnestly bent upon the amelioration of his fellow-man, 
to be thought quite satisfactory ; while too rich and powerful to be 
altogether found wanting. 

Upon leaving the bridge the pair of lovers passed down the 
right bank of the stream, their path lying between the gleam and 
laughter of Chilling Water on the one side, and the gray old wall 
of the vicarage garden on the other. 

Simon Secretan sauntered along with that easy, massive kind of 
lounge which comes natural to large men. His find head was 
thrown back a little, his face full of light and gladness. He had 
the look not only of a man with whom all things are well, but of 
one whose fancy will insist upon painting things even better than 
they are — the look of an enthusiast, a dreamer, an idealist ; one of 
those who enjoy intensely and suffer keenly. A man incapable of 
half-measures or half-loves ; to possess whom for a friend is to have 
a brother, a generous partisan blind to your faults ; one whose good 
opinion you must needs live up to, knowing what a shock must. en- 
sue upon any discovery of your shortcomings. Most of all, too,^a 
partisan of the feeble and unlucky, a “ general gauntlet gatherer 
for the weak against the strong ” ; a man to love well, and satisfy if 
you can, or else to avoid altogether for fear of crashing falls. 

Nell, too, felt happy and at ease as she walked beside her big 
lover. Her late excitement had naturally produced a reaction akin 
to contentment, for the baring of the heart is so often the heart’s 
easing, the expression of an urgent desire its half fulfilment. A 
smooth sense of peace possessed her ; already she cared more than 
she had imagined for Simon ; the deeper love was coming, surely 
coming. She felt a repose in his presence that must needs be a pre- 
cursor of that better state of things. The sense of exaltation and 
rest combined was strong upon her this evening ; the large nature 


17 


of the man seemed a concrete tangible thing upon which she could 
lean. Nell’s contentment was visible in her eyes, in the rich flush 
on her cheek; she would change places with no living person at 
this moment. 

They emerged presently upon the open meadows below the town, 
and Simon halted for a good look at the little place before they 
moved on again. Then they sauntered along the meadow path, 
where are seats beside the stream, shadowed by tall elms, and nooks 
much sought after by young folks of the town, who like to round 
off a day’s work with an evening’s courting. 

As they traversed this idyllic path, now in the green shade of the 
elms, now in the full dazzle of the sloping sun. Jack Syme looked 
from his parlor window and recognized the twain. He did so with 
a half -smile of contempt, corrected by a lurking gleam of senti- 
mental appreciation. He was human, if not poetical, and the lovers 
made a comely picture ; but his grudge, kept simmering by recent 
discussion, rather clouded his aesthetic perception. 

“They are going down-stream, and will probably chance upon 
Terence,” he muttered. “ If so, I should like to be present at the 
introduction.” 

They soon passed out of sight, however, and Jack Syme fell to 
thinking of other things. Though imbittered by a lively grudge 
against Secretan, he was not a man of deep-seated malignity; and 
could he have foreseen how prodigious a crop of mischief would 
spring from the mere handful of seed he had sown in Clancy’s 
mind this afternoon, he would have sunk his grudge under the 
deepest pool of Chilling Water rather than have given it so dan- 
gerous an airing. 

Unconscious of being a target for any man’s gaze, hostile or 
other, Simon passed on down the river, a sunlit heart within, and a 
world of sunlit haze around him, while the presence of his fair 
sweetheart dazzled his thoughts as the slant sun-rays his eyes. 

Once fairly out of sight of the town, he helped her down the 
steep river-bank, and selected a moss-grown bowlder beside a still 
pool as her throne. 

“ Here you must rest awhile, my queen,” he said, with a low lux- 
urious laugh, “ for certain odds and ends are burning holes in the 
pockets of your faithful subject, and crying out to be handled.” 

He laughed again as he emptied pocket after pocket upon a flat 
rock. 

Nell flushed uneasily as she watched the growing heap of boxes 
2 


18 


and miniature parcels, and the pouring out of their contents brought 
a shadow on her face. 

Simon, it appeared, had been treasuring up every trifling want of 
hers. Not a casually mentioned wish, forgotten months ago by her- 
self, had escaped him ; he must have been listening to her very 
thoughts for this twelvemonth past. 

His lavishness touched Nell nearly, but the evidence of his un- 
resting thought for her smote upon her with a sense of pain. Every 
gift he had brought was like a witness against her, an exposition of 
the insigniflcance of her affection as compared with his. She felt 
too much crushed to thank him properly, and had too little natural 
hypocrisy to feign even so much pleasure as propriety demanded. 
But he noticed nothing amiss. A sensitive, thin-skinned man in all 
other relations, he was stone-blind to any shortcoming in this — with 
the blindness of intense natural loyalty aggravated by an imagina- 
tive temperament. 

This blindness always deepened Nell’s uneasiness. She felt caged 
and cramped by this intense belief in her, even to the point of 
hysterical longing to trumpet forth her unworthiness — to thrust it 
upon him with harsh words and looks. 

“ Let us move on again, Simon ; I am rather restless to-day.” 

The remark was abrupt, the tone anything but kind, but he 
showed no surprise. “Very well, dear, let us stroll on. What do 
you say to following the other bank, and taking the woodland path 
towards Hollacomb ?” 

“ But, Simon, there’s no bridge nearer than — ” 

“A ready-made walking bridge on the spot, sweetheart!” He 
held out his arms. When she hung back, he laughed at her for 
nervousness. “ Never fear, little Nell ; I sha’n’t drop you ; you’re a 
deal too precious.” 

In a moment his right arm was round her slender figure, and she 
found herself lifted off the ground — a featherweight in the strong 
man’s hands. 

He strode down to the shallow end of the pool with slow, linger- 
ing steps, then took an oblique course through the water, as though 
to lengthen the journey if possible. Half-way across he stopped, 
held hard by his passion, and whispered, huskily : 

“I love yon — I love you ! I couldn’t have passed another day 
without seeing you, my darling, my beloved 1” 

The bright Chilling laughed as he kissed her lips; the air seemed 
richer for the love-vows of a deep-hearted man, the carol of the lark 


19 


more thrilling. Then he uttered a dazed sigh as he waded out of 
the stream, and placed her gently upon her feet among the ferns. 
He had found the air of paradise intoxicating. 

While he returned for the odds and ends left upon the other 
bank, Nell stood waist-deep among the brake fern, with pulses 
throbbing fiercely. All her innocent self-satisfaction had gone; she 
was humbled, heart-sick, and amazed. It seemed that all her worst 
fears about herself, which had given way beneath her own ardor 
when setting forth her wishes to Kate, and been subsequently dis- 
persed by the glow and excitement of first meeting Simon, had surged 
back like a cowardly mob re-enforced. 

For the first time, after a twelvemonth of continuous effort and 
passive endurance, she found herself in open mutiny against her 
lover, possessed by a sudden overwhelming repulsion. 

“I hate him !” she muttered. “I’ve been a hypocrite to pretend 
the contrary ; and he’s too stupid to see through me ! What right 
has a man to be so blind, so utterly infatuated? He ought to see 
my torture, he ought — O God, forgive me ! What a mean, cold, 
selfish creature I am !” 

Reaction had come again by the time Simon was back with her ; 
the rebound of a generous nature was strong in her as she placed 
her arm in his, crying : 

“Dear old Simon, you care too much for me!” 

Yet very soon her depression returned. She blew hot and cold — 
had a change of mood for every turn in the path ; pitied herself one 
moment, hated herself the next; now was amazed at her own long 
endurance of an intolerable yoke, now puzzled at her own fickleness 
and coldness. The struggle was the harder for its strangeness, this 
wavering, up-and-down mood being q uite foreign to her usual habit 
of mind Hitherto all had been smooth between them. Living 
within so short a distance, seeing him almost every day, she had 
grown thoroughly used to Simon ; but now the habit of passive en- 
durance had lapsed, and it seemed that her yoke would never sit 
easily again. 


CHAPTER IV 


Meanwhile they drew near the border of Hollacomb Great 
Wood, into whose green embrace rushed the Chilling stream, with 
flash and flicker of foam by way of brief coquettish farewell to the 
sun. Nell drooped somewhat at the prospect of entering this wood- 
land solitude ; she would have liked better to walk with her lover 
along the most open and frequented stretch to be found on the 
Queen’s highway. 

Just inside the wood, however, a stroke of unexpected good-fort- 
une befell her ; she caught sight of two familiar figures at the turn 
of the path. 

“Look! Surely those two are Mary Pethick and Mr. Doidge?” 
She spoke briskly, doubtless with a sense of relief at the coming in- 
terruption. The strain was removed ; they had returned abruptly to 
the cheerful domain of King Commonplace. 

“ Simon, I think Mary is unhappy with that man ; I do believe 
he beats her 1 He’s such a black, sour - looking fellow, that I’ve 
always been afraid to speak to him.” 

“ Oh, he’s a good fellow,” quoth Simon, in his large, careless way. 
“ He hates me like poison, and always shows it, which is a good sign. 
There’s no sneaking hypocrisy about Ezekiel Doidge; I like a man 
whose face reflects his heart in that way. Perhaps he’s a bit savage 
and out of tune with the world because of Mary’s coldness. His 
sweetheart doesn’t care for him, they say.” 

“ Do you blame her for not caring enough ?” 

“No, I blame him. He ought to have discovered that long ago; 
a man ought to have eyes in his head.” 

“Those two look as though they had been quarrelling, Simon 1” 

“ Poor Ezekiel 1” 

“ Poor Mary 1 I think. You don’t seem to feel at all for her.” 

But they were now drawing too near the other couple for further 
discussion of their concerns. 

Mary Pethick, who turned to greet the new-comers as soon as their 
steps became audible, was a young woman who monopolized a good 
deal of Chillington’s gossip about this time. She was the daughter 


21 


and heiress of a retired tradesman ; much spoiled by the ladies of 
the neighborhood on account of her musical talents, and by the 
young farmers and tradesmen on account of a certain prettiness and 
coquetry — a combination which, with the general run of men, is apt 
to avail more than real beauty. Indeed, many flirtations with all 
sorts of n)en, had earned for Mary the character of being a shallow, 
fickle creature, more likely to get into mischief than ever to prove 
good for much. But Nell Tredethlyn chose to think there was good 
stuff in the girl. True,. Mary was a thought too fond of pleasure; 
but, was it surprising that, living as she did, in the seclusion of Hol- 
lacomb Farm, with only a deaf old father for company, the girl 
should be driven to extract every possible scrap of fun from the 
Chillington gatherings ? And as for her inability to appreciate the 
wealthy miller and land-owner, Mr. Doidge, to whom she had prob- 
ably engaged herself without enough consideration, why — some peo- 
ple might be inclined to sympathize with her on that score. 

Mary received Miss Tredethlyn with a blush and an awkward bow, 
but Nell’s frank hand went out to her immediately. 

“ I am so glad to see you, Mary. Have you been singing much 
lately ? Tell me of any new songs you have.” 

Nell had felt especially drawn towards the girl lately, their mutual 
attraction doubtless arising from similarity of situation. They were, 
so to speak, fellow-sufferers; each of them too much beloved, each 
bearing the burden according to her light — though the lights were 
wide asunder in respect of power and quality. 

There was something of comedy in their obvious relief now. 
Mary, who had previously been sulking for a full half-hour, prattled 
cheerfully, as soon as her first shyness wore off ; Nell’s returning 
brightness was like sun after gloom. 

But these blind men perceived not the comedy. Doidge stood 
thrashing the lady-fern, and looking savagely from his sweetheart to 
Mr. Secretan, as though seeking for some sign between them. 

He would gladly have picked a quarrel with Secretan, being jeal- 
ous of him in more relations than one. For, before Secretan’s ar- 
rival in these parts, Ezekiel Doidge had been a little king in Chil- 
lington. He had organized and domineered over every club and 
society of which the little place boasted, until his self-conceit 
became insupportable ; and, the county gentlemen always holding 
aloof from the town and its affairs, his position appeared to be 
impregnable. 

But no sooner did Simon Secretan come into the neighborhood 


22 


than he plunged eagerly, full of philanthropy and other dangerous 
fads, into the life and doings of Chillington. 

First he handed over all the water on the Ilollacomb estate, which 
he had inherited from his mother, to the Angling Association ; thus 
making Doidge’s gift of half a mile of stream seem trifling. Then 
he levelled a flat-topped spur of the moor with a view to making a 
cricket-ground for the townsfolk; then thrust his fingers into ben- 
efit societies, plans for the old - age insurance of laborers, and other 
matters having no concern with what people chose to consider his 
proper business. In short, this amateur philanthropist had in vari- 
ous ways contrived to mortally wound Doidge’s self-love. And now 
that foolish miller, with the eager fatuity of an intense man nipped 
by jealousy, had come to look upon Mr. Secretan as a possible en- 
tangler of his sweetheart’s affections. 

It must be confessed that Mary always took pleasure in giving 
color to this delusion. To extol the handsome Mr. Secretan was a 
simple, sure — and, as she thought, perfectly harmless — way of pun- 
ishing a lover who not seldom required the rod. She was able thus, 
moreover, to render innocuous the spurts of jealousy which would 
have been dangerous if directed against other people — against one 
man in particular, if the truth must be told. In brief, Mary was a 
coquettish woman, with her natural failings emphasized by a foolish 
engagement; and had lately been playing with edged tools, whose 
wounding capabilities she was yet to discover. 

Miss Tredethlyn and Mary seemed loath to part this afternoon. 
The interest of their gossip showed no signs of abatement, for the 
sufficient reason that each vied with the other in eager putting for- 
ward of fresh topics. Judging by their present aspect, it seemed 
likely that nightfall would find them still talking. 

Doidge regarded them with frowning impatience, his every third 
glance wandering rival-wards. But Simon Secretan, among whose 
fads the study of astronomy held a high place, was drawing a geo- 
metrical diagram on the sandy path, and seemed lost in calculation. 
Yet this might have been a mere cunning feint of abstraction, and 
poor Ezekiel, in his present condition, could suck jealousy out of a 
stone. 

After a few minutes the mathematician emerged from his prob- 
lem, and the talk ceased abruptly. Some one was evidently ap- 
proaching, the sound of whose passage through the bushes was in- 
audible to Doidge on account of his proximity to the rush of the 
stream. 


23 


This some one was a fisherman, who came scrambling up from 
the rocky bed of the river, carolling at the top of his voice : 

“ 0 dolce Napoli 
0 suol beato, 

Ove sorridere 
Voile il creato.” 

The voice was a clear delicate tenor ; its owner, Terence Clancy 
by name, was .pouring his heart out in sheer exuberance of health 
and spirits. Terence was a cunning angler, and had been doing 
smart things with the Chilling trout. The hot, bright weather, so 
unfavorable to the fisherman, had been a challenge to him, and the 
pink-spotted beauties now lining his creel made a veritable triumph 
under the circumstances. 

Upon catching sight of the group on the pathway he flushed 
warmly, coming to a dead stop. 

“Who the devil are yow, with your woman’s skin and red hair?” 
muttered Ezekiel Doidge. 

The question was answered immediately ; for Secretan called out, 
with a laugh at his friend’s embarrassment : 

“ Hallo, Terence ! Well met, old fellow. I’m delighted to see you.” 

Then Clancy came forward, stamping the water from his dripping 
waders. 

“You’ve often heard me speak of my friend Terence Clancy, 
Nell ? Well, now at last I can introduce him to you in the flesh.” 

The simple ceremony would have pleased Jack Syme had he 
been present ; for even though Terence was not quite at his best 
this afternoon, Nell quickly discovered him to be charming. His 
slight awkwardness seemed to accord so well with his modest looks 
and sentiments. He had a gentle, deprecating way with women, as 
though he were not half good enough for them ; and his sunny 
smile had a curious attraction of its own. Nell thought she had 
never yet met a man quite so frank and pleasing. There was some- 
thing fine, too; something quite removed from the commonplace 
about big Simon’s friendship for this man. He stood with one 
hand on Terence’s shoulder, speaking to him with the kind of protect- 
ing solicitude he might have shown towards a delicate woman. In 
a moment, as it seemed, they were all three talking together as 
though Clancy and Miss Tredethlyn had been old friends, Terence 
exhibiting his fish, and modestly describing how he had blundered 
over and lost the inevitable “ biggest of the day.” 


24 


Meanwhile Mary Pethick had stepped aside to pluck some ferns, 
and was stooping over them, red and pale by turns, the fronds shak- 
ing in the hand that held them. 

Ezekiel, too much out of temper to join her, was watching the 
others. He presently called out rudely : 

“ Hi ! you, sir ; have you been fishing without a ticket ?” 

“ Mr. Clancy is my friend,” said Secretan, tranquilly, without 
troubling to look round. 

“ But this is Association water, though it runs through your land, 
and the Association, represented by myself, knows nothing of your 
private friends, Mr. Secretan.” 

Doidge advanced a few steps, quite cheered at the prospect of a 
controversy with his rival ; but Terence hastily interposed, pulling a 
fishing ticket from his fly-book. 

“ Are you the secretary, Mr. Doidge ? Well, I got this at your 
oflSce this afternoon.” He spoke with a disarming smile, which had 
a curious melting effect upon Doidge. 

“ All right, sir ; no offence. But as I dismissed both keepers for 
idleness t’other day. I’m obliged to do the watching myself just now. 
Somehow I like this young fellow,” he added to himself; “ he’s quite 
different from that damned stuck-up sw^ell of a Secretan !” 

One sharp, sudden, half-scared glance Clancy shot at the secretary 
as he turned away ; but no one noticed it, unless it were Mary Pe- 
thick, who had looked up from her fern-gathering upon hearing Eze- 
kiel’s voice. Unfortunately — most unfortunately for every one of 
the five persons who had thus met together by chance — the quick- 
eyed jealousy which, if directed aright, might have availed much, 
was wasting itself in busy search for a mare’s-nest. Doidge was 
missing an opportunity from pure misdirection of vision ; straining 
his eyes to find a cloud in a speckless sky, and so disregarding the 
danger-signal held up in his path. 

Soon afterwards Mary bade a rather hasty farewell to Miss Tre- 
dethlyn, and departed up-stream with her lover. Terence also re- 
marked that he must be going, and marched off through the woods 
with a view to making a bee-line for Monks Damerel Hall. 


CHAPTER V 


The combe in which were situated the Hall and Hamlet of Monks 
Damerel was a long narrow valley trending in a westerly direction, 
its steep sides widening out at the mouth as if to embrace and make 
much of the westering sun. It was a lateral branch of the main 
Chilling vale ; full of the mystery and seclusion of the moor, but 
having a dainty green beauty of its own unknown to the bare brown 
wilderness around it. A stream, which marks the axial line of every 
hollow in these parts, flashed through the oak-coppiced grounds of 
the old Hall, curving crisply a mile or so below round the half-dozen 
cottages of the hamlet. No main road crossed the quiet combe ; but 
only the stony moorland track, connecting it with Chillington on the 
north, and then following the brook down to its junction with the 
river at Bickington bridge. It was a place for a scholar’s thoughts 
to mellow in, a suitable haven of rest, as Sir Hamo Secretan thought) 
during the twilight time that follows upon a deep grief. 

Sir Hamo came from a distant county, a district which he never 
intended to revisit; w^hich, indeed, had become so hateful to him 
that he had sold his old family estate for half its value and departed, 
shaking the dust from his feet. For there, in one fell week, he 
had lost, through an epidemic of diphtheria which had ravaged the 
neighboring villages, his eldest son, two fair daughters, and his be- 
loved wife. 

Never a strong man, this blow had had the effect of confirming 
his natural weakness and idiosyncrasy. From being a bookish man 
with occasional bursts of action, he became a downright bookworm, 
and for some years was hardly ever seen outside his study. At length, 
however, he roused himself from his lethargy so far as to feel once 
more the promptings of land hunger; and as his remaining son, 
Simon, had inherited from Lady Secretan the manor of Hollacornb, 
near Chillington, Sir Hamo’s eyes were turned in that direction. 
Thus, when the Monks Damerel property, which half surrounded 
Hollacornb, chanced to come into the market, it occurred to both 
father and son that the opportunity might be taken advantage of. 
T^ue, the neighborhood was thick sown with memories of the wife 


26 


whom Sir Ilamo had wooed and won by Chilling Water, yet might 
not these memories suffice to lend a delicate aroma of old happiness 
to the neighborhood ? 

A single visit to the Hall, the ancient home of an ancient race, set- 
tled the question. For here, surely, was the very place of refuge for 
which the old scholar’s faded heart craved. Here was a gray old 
mansion, rising, massive and melancholy, from its balustraded ter- 
race ; in its front a wide forecourt and battlemented gate-house led 
np to by a broad avenue of sycamores with counter- avenues of 
beeches. And, best of all, this Old World picture was set in a most 
fitting frame — an old formal garden of the sixteenth century, with 
bowling alleys, and green galleries, and mighty hedges of clipped 
yew; and “knots” of rosemary, hyssop, and thyme. The preserva- 
tion of this garden in its ancient state had always been a point of 
honor with the Bampfylde family; the vulgarizing touch of the mod- 
ern landscape-gardener had been rigidly excluded; and so the old 
place was a complete, harmonious whole, a gem set by a delicate 
artist, well worthy of its place upon the bosom of nature. 

After viewing the Hall which he had not seen for five-and-twenty 
years, and pacing through the length and breadth of that ancient 
garden. Sir Hamo drew a deep breath and vowed that a worn-out old 
fellow could find no better resting-place anywhere within this naugh- 
ty world. No need for any further pressure from his son ; his mind 
was already made up, and in a couple of months’ time he and his son 
had taken possession of Monks Damerel. 

Now, soon after their settlement, ironical fate decreed that old Sir 
Hamo, already a man of considerable wealth, and wanting even such 
moderate ambition as makes the salt of existence, should become the 
indifferent possessor of great riches. 

It came about in this way : Upon the southward fringe of the 
property there was a presumably worthless old tin-mine, which had 
broken the purse, and afterwards the heart, of the last owner. Sir 
Hamo took no interest in this mine ; he had purchased the land for 
the sake of sentiment, not minerals, and hardly knew whether or not 
ho should continue working the ore. But fortune, with her usual ap- 
titude for snubbing the devout worshipper and rewarding the callous 
passer-by, insisted upon providing him with an agent of exceptional 
ability, who first caused the mine to pay moderately, and presently 
discovered a new lode which not only multiplied the output bv ten, 
but afterwards led the way to the opening up of other lodes still 
more valuable. Thus Sir Hamo, the eremitic scholar, became the 


27 


possessor of such prodigious wealth as neither he nor any one else 
quite knew the amount of. 

The sensation produced in the neighborhood by these discoveries 
was tinged with a certain cynical melancholy. There was poor old 
Squire Bampfylde, in whose family the Hall had been for so many 
generations, dead of a broken heart ; and hardly was he cold in his 
grave when the ungrateful soil of his forefathers opened its mouth 
to pour forth gold upon an indifferent stranger. And how much 
good would it do now ? Would this old bookworm of a baronet 
keep a pack of hounds, fill his house with eligible bachelors, give 
great entertainments such as swell the tills of honest Chillington 
tradesmen, or in any other way study the well-being of his fellow- 
man ? 

In fact. Sir Hamo never made a single bid for popularity, but 
quickly settled into his musty groove ; entertaining his county neigh- 
bors as seldom as decency permitted, and never giving Little Chil- 
lington a thought. Yet a course of consistent selfishness is not 
necessarily unpopular ; being at least incompatible with neighborly 
interference — the one thing your genuine Briton does hate with 
depth and vehemence. At any rate, this neighborhood, upon which 
Sir Hamo never bestowed a thought, bore no particular grudge 
against him ; and in truth was not a little proud of his immense 
wealth and fabulous erudition. 

His son Simon, however, was right royally hated by a good many 
worthy people, chiefiy by reason of his benevolent fads and whim- 
seys. If Sir Hamo thought too little of Chillington, his son thought 
a deal too much. He seemed oppressed by his heirship to a noble 
fortune, to feel with Romney Leigh — 

“ Who thought to take the world upon his back. 

To carry it o’er a chasm of social ill.” 

Simon had a dozen tiresome theories about decent housing of the 
poor, honest trading, and other unpalatable matters. He was wel- 
come enough to build a free library and mechanics’ institute out of 
his father’s money ; nor was there any particular harm in his fancy 
for giving up all the trouting water on his own estate of Hollacomb 
to the Angling Association ; but when it came to building a row of 
new cottages by the river and letting them to idle fellows at a nom- 
inal rent — why, critics thought it high time for tongue-sharpening. 

As patron of the living, too, Simon Secretan contrived to give 
much offence. For on the death of the old vicar, a good easy man 


28 


and true Chillingtonian — who did nothing, and died universally re* 
spected — he must needs put in Frank Nelson, an energetic young 
Cambridge man as exacting and tiresome as himself. Between the 
two Chillington grew harassed and irritable, like an over-drugged 
patient ; and soon found itself deprived of that repose which it val- 
ued even more than mild lambing seasons and sunny harvests. Let 
this big pushing young gentleman stick to his observatory on the 
moor ; let him stare himself blind with his telescopes if he pleased, 
and leave honest folk alone ; in short, “ Let un lave off harassing o’ 
we, and ns won’t interfere wi’ he !” Such were the universal senti- 
ments of Chillington bar-parlors of a Saturday night. 

Sir Hamo, as we have seen, concerned himself little about so much 
of the world as lay outside the walls of his study ; yet for one per- 
son he would sacrifice even his beloved seclusion — to wit, his in- 
tended daughter-in-law. For Nell Tredethlyn he had a romantic 
affection — a species of adoration curious and picturesque as a study. 
Nell made a link between himself and his son — a link much needed, 
for this sentimental but narrow -hearted old gentleman had never 
quite forgiven Simon for surviving the beloved elder brother. “ If 
only Hamo had been spared to me !” was the father’s constant cry. 

He even grudged Simon his taste for mathematics and natural 
science. When had dear Hamo ever been guilty of this vulgar mod- 
ern craving for hard facts and dull figures? Ah! but Hamo was 
a chip of the old block ; while Simon might have been any man’s 
son. 

By becoming engaged to Nell Tredethlyn, however, Simon made 
a definite step in his father’s affections. As beautiful Nell’s lover 
he acquired a new importance and interest; in a word, father and 
son at length possessed a fad in common, and true fanatics were they 
both in its pursuit. 

On all occasions when Nell was expected as a guest, it was Sir 
Hamo’s custom to perturb and exasperate his whole household for 
days beforehand. One of his whims was to have none but female 
servants about the place ; another was a rooted disbelief in their ca- 
pacities in any direction whatsoever. He distrusted women entirely, 
yet hated the race of flunkies too cordially to admit one single speci- 
men under his roof. Thus it became necessary, whenever visitors 
were expected, to harry the house-keeper, and through her to induce 
a current of hysteria throughout the establishment. If the Tredeth. 
lyns were invited. Sir Hamo would have draughts on the brain, and 
seemed to have a settled belief in a universal conspiracy against the 


29 


life of Nell ; who, having seldom known a day’s illness, was often 
distressed by elaborate precautions and schemes tending to asphyx- 
iation. 

Now it chanced, about a week after Simon’s return from town, 
that Terence Clancy had an opportunity of observing these phenom- 
ena peculiar to Monks Damerel Hall ; for Nell, with her father and 
sister, was invited to dinner. From the moment of their acceptance 
he noticed that the atmosphere of the house became charged with 
electricity. Nor was he himself untouched by the prevailing epi- 
demic of excitement. 

In truth, Terence was tingling with anticipation of a kind too 
keen to be quite pleasurable. The last week had been to him a whirl 
of sensations, which acted upon him like repeated draughts of strong 
wine. He and Simon had half lived at Moor Gates; and of that 
best week in his life Terence felt this evening to be the crown and 
finish. 

After this the curtain must fall upon the too-charming pastoral 
piece, and the stage-lights must be put out. No more play-acting 
for one whose life was to be a round of commonplace drudgery. 
His pleasant holiday must come to an end ; he mnst settle down to 
real work ; quit the fine old Hall, with its charming idleness and re- 
finement, for some such dingy, evil -smelling little place as Jack 
Syme’s surgery. 

It was hard, bitterly hard. Had Nature endowed him with wit, 
and social talent, and keenest love for all things fine and beautiful, 
to enable him to fill the role of driven, harassed, hand-to-mouth gen- 
eral practitioner? Yet what chance had he in a world where cash 
means happiness?' What hope of improvement in his lot? The 
Secretans meant well, but Simon’s intention of working up a practice 
for his friend was simply of a piece with his other Utopian dreams. 

During this visit to the Hall Terence had become better acquainted 
with this visionary from whose kind offices he had hoped so much. 
Why, Simon’s schemes, he had found, were the standing jokes of 
the neighborhood ; and this visit would prove no better than a dis- 
astrous waste of time, an aggravation of the drudgery to which he 
was returning so soon. Why had Simon asked him here at all, only 
to torture him with a glimpse of paradise? His friend had shown 
him a most cruel kindness in this matter. Would that he had never 
left town, had never seen Ghillington, never entered the Hall, never 
been taken to Moor Gates — most of all, would that he had never met 
Nell Tredethlyn! 


30 


For Miss Nell seemed to be the culminating note in his indictment 
of Providence, the last straw of his burden. Terence was intensely 
impressionable. Nell’s beauty and sweetness of manner had affected 
him almost magically in that short interview by the river, and again 
in the many subsequent meetings at her own home. He had tried 
hard to be attracted by Kate, but she only awed him, while Nell 
intoxicated him. He was conscious of an insane desire to see Nell 
again, jeer how he would at his own fatuity. She belonged to his 
friend — was bought with Simon’s money, as he reflected bitterly. 
Was ever a wish denied to wealth or granted to poverty ? Secretan 
had but to hold up his finger, and this girl with her glorious beauty 
was thrust into his arms. He had everything, everything — all the 
beauty and poetry of life, the glow, the freedom, the love — AVell, 
for this one evening, for this last evening in paradise, he, Terence, 
was going to be happy. For this once he would sun himself at Nell’s 
eyes. There could be no danger in that. Mayn’t a man drink one 
draught of happiness before retiring to a desert? Nor could honor 
be called in question. Simon had, in fact, more than once expressed 
a desire for his betrothed and his friend to see a great deal of one 
another. He wished them to be real friends, had even stipulated 
that Terence should take Nell into dinner to-night. He was throw- 
ing them together of his own free will. Now, Terence could not 
afford to disoblige this powerful friend. Moreover, he felt himself as 
fit to be trusted upon the point of honor as any man living. Syme 
might have spared his sneers on this head. Terence would like Nell 
to be pleased with him, to feel as a friend towards him — no more. 
What critic could dare to find fault with so humble a desire? But 
at present there was no critic at hand either to praise or blame ; for 
by capturing all hearts Terence had secured a chorus of eulogy from 
all around him; while as for his conscience, that was not always 
proof against his own eloquence, indeed often needed backing up by 
outside opinion. An unbiassed person, however, with a perfect 
knowledge of the workings of Terence’s mind at this juncture, 
might have offered some useful platitudes by way of corrective to 
the arguments furnished by himself in his own favor. 


CHAPTER VI 


When contemplating an entertainment, on however small a scale, 
Sir Hamo was nearly always compelled to seek the assistance and 
support of his lady cousin, Mrs. French-Chichester. Without some 
such extraneous aid his battalion of petticoats used to get out of 
hand as well as hysterical. 

To-day was to be no exception to the rule ; and about two o’clock, 
when the fume and fret of harassed females had converted the Hall 
into a residence about as desirable as the interior of a volcano, the 
lady arrived in due course ; whereupon peace and order ensued im- 
mediately, the almost tragic strain upon a score of nervous systems 
was relieved as if by magic. 

Terence Clancy was the first to greet the welcome visitor. 

“ Well, Mr. Clancy,” she said, shaking hands with him warmly — 
for during the last five or six weeks Mrs. French-Chichester had, for 
certain reasons of her own, “taken up” and befriended the young 
Irishman to their mutual satisfaction — “ what is the condition of 
your atmosphere over here to-day ? Much hysteria about ? Any of 
the maids in fainting-fits? Well, cousin” — this to Sir Hamo, who 
had just drifted into the drawing-room, looking absent and irrita- 
ble — “have you been enjoying yourself, harrying the womenkind? 
I think you’re really fortunate in having a medical man in the house; 
some of those poor maids are sure to need treatment before the 
day’s out.” 

“Your spirits are wonderful, Kathleen,” said the old gentleman, 
with a sigh and a courteous bend of his silver head. “We are ex- 
pecting Nell and some others to dinner, and so — ” 

“Yes, yes, I know ; and the sky will fall unless everything’s per- 
fect, won’t it ?” 

“ And so I thought you would be so very good as to come over — ” 

“ Of course. I’m only too glad to leave the dismal shades of Hol- 
lacomb for a few hours. Why don’t you send Simon over to see me 
oftener ?” 

“ Oh, Simon’s no good !” retorted the old man, querulously. “ He’s 
always immersed in his star-gazing or his absurd philanthropic 


82 


schemes. He is away now on some mysterious errand in Chilling' 
ton, getting astronomical drawings copied, or haply designs for a new 
infant-school, or home for decayed gentlewomen. I do assure you 
that he cares far more about determining the shape of Jupiter’s fourth 
satellite, whether round or elongated, than considering any such trifle 
as the happiness of those about him. But you know his fads as well 
as I, Kathleen.” 

“ Why, of course I do ! Think of Nell’s fate when she marries 
your son, cousin ; she’ll have to alternate the role of observatory 
assistant with that of matron to the last new hospital !” 

Mrs. French-Chichester rang a merry peal of laughter. Her mirth 
brimmed with good-nature, but had a sediment of malice, as the 
quick-eared Terence had often noticed. 

“ Well, I hope,” continued Sir Hamo, with a sigh and a furtive 
edging away towards one of the doors, “ that as I have no son to 
help me, you will kindly take charge of everything, Kathleen ; and 
I’m sure our always-kind Mr. Clancy will act as your aide-de-camp.” 

“Yes; I’ll see to everything. You are free from this moment, 
cousin. You may retire at once to your library and your ancient 
manuscripts, and never give the household another thought. Mr. 
Clancy will help me, and we’ll do all that’s necessary, even to her- 
metically sealing the dining-room windows for the sake of poor deli- 
cate Nell.” 

Sir Hamo retired obediently. His step was listless and weary as 
be passed from the room, his grand head was bent low ; the stoop 
of his shoulders seemed to have grown more marked even since his 
cousin’s last visit. His noble presence and air of reflned melancholy 
always made his withdrawal from a room seem to Terence like the 
closing of a sad poem. 

For a few moments after the door closed they were silent ; then 
Mrs. French-Chichester, as if drawn on by Terence’s sympathetic 
looks, began to speak her thought aloud. 

“ Why doesn’t he care more for Simon ?” she muttered, reflectively. 

Terence made no attempt to answer the question. He had failed 
as yet to quite comprehend this lady and her relations with Sir 
Hamo and Simon. She was at present Simon’s tenant, having 
taken Hollacomb Manor for a term of years, and, as Terence had 
gathered from others, was the only one of his relatives of whom 
Sir Hamo had taken any account of late years. 

But though he had not yet fathomed Mrs. French-Chichester, her 
very friendly treatment of himself had strongly biassed him in her 


33 


favor. Here was he, a penniless, struggling young doctor, picked 
out of the crowd and made much of by the most notable and popu- 
lar great lady in the neighborhood. How could he do other than 
like and admire her? She seemed in her good-natured way to dis- 
parage Simon somewhat unnecessarily, especially in speaking of him 
to his father; but these small shafts might be no more than the after- 
math of an old quarrel, of which Terence had heard rumors. 

This quarrel had been brought about quite naturally. Mrs. French- 
Chichester was the widow of a distinguished general, and after the 
rapid life and movement of popular foreign stations, often found 
the stagnation of an English country district a weariness difficult to 
support. To correct this she liked playing I^ady Bountiful to the 
neighborhood, especially to young people, more especially to good- 
looking young people, most of all to young people in love. She 
had a keen eye for the symptoms of a budding passion, and was 
perhaps a thought too fond of furthering the intrigues of young 
lovers. 

It was in this connection that Simon, with his singular capacity 
for putting his foot into it, had come into collision with Cousin 
Kathleen. i 

There was a certain romantic affair, in the course of which a 
young squire of the neighborhood broke an engagement of long 
standing, his breach of faith being aided and abetted by the adroit 
mistress of Hollacomb Manor. This was a noble opportunity for 
Simon the gauntlet-gatherer, and he did not let it slip. He first 
exchanged some hard words with the squire, and, having thus gen- 
erated sufficient excitement to attack even a lady relative, drove 
straight to Hollacomb, and gave Cousin Kathleen such a rating as 
might be forgiven and forgotten in the course of ten years or so — 
by an exceptionally generous person. 

Terence was acquainted with this bare outline of an affair which 
had made some stir at the time, and sometimes wondered how Si- 
mon and his cousin had come to be on such good terms again. In 
spite of an occasional shaft or two, it seemed that the widow must 
possess a considerable fund of magnanimity. 

He shot a puzzled glance at her now as she stood reflecting. She 
was a tall woman, with glossy black hair sprinkled with gray, a sal- 
low complexion, and light-gray eyes, keen and alert. Though she 
seemed buried in thought, he caught a return glance directed at him- 
self, and they both smiled to pass it off. 

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” she said, “so I must 
3 


34 


do so myself. Why is there so little accord between Sir Hamo and 
Simon ? I believe it is because at bottom they are too much alike; 
because the same morbid vein runs through father and son. Both 
run to extremes ; neither is in touch with ordinary human nature ; 
neither knows anything of the world that goes on around him. In- 
deed, Simon’s blind optimism is phenomenal in a man of his age.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” Terence responded, musingly ; “ their 
likeness makes their discord. I was thinking only yesterday that 
Miss Nell Tredethlyn makes the only real link between Sir Hamo 
and his son.” 

“ Ah ! were you — were you thinking so ?” 

Her words came o^ut quick and crisp as jets of steam. Terence 
looked more puzzled than before. She began at once to explain 
her eagerness. 

“ It interests me to find your thought running in the same groove 
as mine, Mr. Clancy — I had almost said ‘ Terence,’ for I’m afraid 
that is what I call you behind your back.” 

It was a little intoxicating for Terence to have so important a 
personage almost coaxing him by her deprecating tone. 

“It would be an honor and a pleasure to hear you call me ‘ Ter- 
ence ’ to my face,” he said, warmly. 

“Well, why shouldn’t I? I’m old enough to be your mother, 
and we’ve known each other nearly two months, haven’t we, Ter- 
ence ?” 

“ Certainly. And during that time you have shown me such un- 
varying kindness as I cannot thank you for half enough.” 

“Tut, tut, my dear boy, you don’t know what a pleasure it is to 
me to meet a clever young Irishman in this dull corner of Saxon- 
dom. Why, half the girls about here are in love with you already, 
I believe !” 

Terence laughed musically; he was always modest enough to 
make it a pleasure to fiatter him. 

“But, to return to your friend Simon a moment, Terence do 

you know, I am very uneasy about him ? It is true that a breach 
with his betrothed might cause a quarrel with his father, but that 
would be healed in course of time. What I fear more is the step 
from betrothal to marriage, and the subsequent awakening — you un- 
derstand me?” 

lie understood readily enough, and listened for more with a curi- 
ous sense of trouble mixed with exultation. 

“ You see, Terence, I speak to you frankly and without affecta- 


35 


tion, as being, like myself, Simon’s friend and well-wisher; and, 
further, as one possessed with far too much power of intuition to 
be blind to what passes before your eyes. You know as well as I 
that this engagement is a one-sided affair. Indeed, for my part, 
I’m heartily sorry for the young people. Nell doesn’t care for him 
— never will ; never could — and has found it out too late. Simon 
is perfectly blind to this, and will be until marriage opens his eyes, 
and then — mat coelum ! The plain truth is that these amiable 
young innocents are bound on a journey which must land them in 
wretchedness. The girl is torturing herself now, but what will be 
her state when actually married to Simon ? She’ll hate him as well 
as herself; that will be the end of it. You know my nickname for 
him — ‘ Lord Timon ’ ! Well, he’s Timon in the reckless, generous 
stage now — he’ll be Simon the Cynic then! No half -measures 
with him, I know well ; he’ll plunge from his present extreme of 
blind happiness into that of pure desolation.” 

Terence felt that there was much truth in all this— and tried to 
feel that there was no malice under it. Mrs. French -Chichester 
seemed to be speaking as a kindly woman impelled to unusual con- 
fidence by sheer warmth of feeling; but — but, as she said, Terence 
had a keen faculty of intuition. She concluded in a lighter, some- 
what apologetic tone : 

“However, I ought not to take advantage of your friendship for 
Simon by troubling you with these matters which are disturbing 
me. Let us now ring for Mrs. Henley, the house-keeper, and set to 
work in earnest.” 

Mrs. French-Chichester and her aide-de-camp then entered upon 
their duties with zest, for the bustle and movement of such prepa- 
rations were grateful to the excited mood into which both had fallen. 
The lively widow took a special pride in her capacity for manipu- 
lating the female flock at the Hall, and getting them to work har- 
moniously ; and her velvety smoothing of Mrs. Henley, while de- 
nuding that jealous woman of all her powers and privileges, was a 
miracle of adroitness. Even in utilizing Terence she displayed tal- 
ent, assigning to him the task of cozening the head-gardener. A 
wealth of flowers flowed in upon her in consequence; for to the 
frank boldness of a man Terence added the pleasing cajolery of a 
woman. It was the same with gardeners, stablemen, maids; even 
with the crabbed Mrs. Henley herself — neither man nor woman 
could resist Terence, since he attacked each with arts learned from 
the other. 


36 


The hours flew. In no time, as it seemed, Terence found him- 
self in the drawing-room with Mrs. French-Chichester, listening for 
the rumble of arriving wheels. Sir Hamo had been extracted from 
his library but a few minutes ago. Simon had not yet arrived from 
his mysterious visit to the town. They had a pleasant little ten 
minutes together. 

Terence was full of open admiration for his companion, and she 
really deserved it. Her somewhat sallow complexion looked well 
by gaslight, her pale eyes gleamed brightly; her figure was full of 
stately grace ; her toilet such a masterpiece as long purse, long pains, 
and talent amounting almost to genius, can produce when in com- 
bination. She looked what she aspired to be — the queen of the 
neighborhood. 

And to a man of his age there was a peculiar fascination about 
the protecting, even flattering, attitude she assumed towards him. 
She tapped him with her fan, encouraged his admiration, fastened 
in his flower coquettishly, and by a dozen little attentions led him 
to understand that he was a handsome young fellow, well deserving 
a high place in her regard. Even his genuine modesty was not 
proof against such bewildering treatment. The clever widow fairly 
turned his head. 

She sprinkled the air all round him with delicate flattery, which 
he drank in together with the flower-scents of the room ; and her 
radiant costume flattered his eye as her words his ear. Without any 
apparent leading of Terence she tuned his mind to the pitch of 
exaltation in which the touch of every new thought strikes out a 
melody, and mere fact is lost in the harmonious clang of many 
hopes. The mere prose of life was melting into verse, and as the 
verse flowed she wedded it to music. He seemed, as it were, to 
have climbed the social ladder at a single stride. Ambitions which 
a week ago had been ridiculous were now becoming rational and 
even praiseworthy. And she was careful not to carry him too far 
or to let any wish of her own stand forth to mar the impre.ssion she 
had created ; she seemed merely a good-natured friend, anxious to 
encourage him and make him conscious of his gifts. 

After this exciting process she steadied him a little by a laughing 
description of some of the people he was about to meet. 

“You know Mr. Nelson, the vicar, I think? He has a touch of 
good old Simon’s lunacy, but fortunately is not rich enough to' carry 

it to the same lengths. His wife has a nursery full of children 

with ideas to correspond, We sha’n’t get much fun out of them. 


37 


Mr. Tredethlyn is worth meeting — when not dyspeptic. Of course 
you’ve met him, though, as well as the girls? As for the latter, 
they at least will provide us with a spice of comedy. On the one 
side, we shall have Nell trying to care for Simon ; on the other, Kate 
trying not to care for his friend Julius Rush. Captain Rush is a 
dragoon guardsman, and heir to a fine property called Bickington 
Park. But unfortunately the place was purchased with the base 
coin of trade. Old Mr. Rush, now Squire Rush of Bickington, oc- 
cupied many profitable years in measuring the waists and legs of 
noble lords and others in a respectable shop at the West End. And 
you know Kate’s weakness. Had the tailor’s son possessed the 
wealth of a Midas and the intellect of a Newton, she must have 
snubbed him. She does it well, too. You’ll see to-night how she 
can make him writhe ; for he’s a proud man, and admires her against 
his will. I fancy she has a little weakness that way herself, from 
the pains she takes to be rude to him. Odd thing, isn’t it, that 
one sister should be cooing at the man she doesn’t care for, while 
the other is, so to say, clawing the man she does ? Ah, that’s the 
sound of wheels, Terence — the curtain’s about to rise!” 

The different groups which made up the small party entered soon 
afterwards in quick succession, and Terence found himself greeted 
cordially by almost every one. 

The good-natured, unctuofls Mr. Tredethlyn drew near to him 
with especial friendliness. 

“ You see, we none of us look upon you as a stranger, Mr. Clan- 
cy, having heard so much about you from your friend and eulo- 
gizer, Simon. We are all hoping that you will really settle down 
in the neighborhood. I assure you Chillington is quite prepared to 
receive you with open arms,” and so on, and so on. 

Why did every soul he met thus insist upon puffing and praising 
him ? By what gift or faculty did he thus attract every one who 
crossed his path? He made no special effort to please; hearts 
seemed to be won by a civil remark or a brace of conventional 
smiles. But whatsoever the gift might be it would be wasted, he 
presumed ; for the vice of his poverty, once clearly exposed, must 
soon kill his popularity. 

Terence’s glance, straying past the bulky form of Mr. Tredethlyn, 
presently hit upon the corner where Simon, who had but just entered, 
was talking to Nell. She seemed distraite. Her long lashes were 
lowered ; or was this a deferential meekness induced by the pres- 
ence of her lord and master? She looked more ravishing than ever 


38 


to-night, Terence thought, with her dark face set off by white and 
gold draperies, her little hands toying with her big fan. And tall 
Simon stood worshipping her — doubtless gloating over his property. 
They would be married ere long, Terence supposed. He felt a stir- 
ring of something like hatred for this man upon whom Fortune so 
lavished her gifts. 

The simple announcement of dinner roused Terence like a bugle- 
call to action ; the best moment of the twenty-four hours was at 
hand. 

When the party paired off Nell was to belong to him, to be his 
very own during that brief passage to the dining-room. Ah, the 
moment had come at last! The rustle of dresses and murmur of 
talk was ebbing from the room, Nell’s small hand was upon his arm, 
her flower-face looking up to him. 

“You seem depressed this evening?” she whispered, kindly, as 
they crossed the polished hall. 

“ I wonder was Adam cheerful when the time came for him to 
leave Paradise ?” he answered, recklessly. 

Her innocence gave a keen edge to his temptation. She was 
country-bred, unsophisticated, without the usual quick perception of 
her sex in one direction. Her unconsciousness of his admiration 
made it so dangerously safe. He felt, that he could look and talk as 
he pleased, that no thought of anything beyond simple friendship 
would come into her mind. 

In truth, all Terence’s surroundings combined to inflame him to- 
night. Peasant-born, and reared in narrow circumstances, he was 
yet intensely alive to aesthetic impressions. The mellow old dining- 
room, with its oak panelling and fine pictures, appealed to him keenly; 
those delicate Claudes and sensuous Correggios, collected by Sir Hamo 
and his forefathers, spoke to Clancy as to no one else in the room. 
None of these people, his social superiors, had his innate perception 
of grand art; almost all of them would have preferred a flashy mod- 
ern landscape or sickly sweet piece of homely genre^ or haply some 
drama of puppy-dogs and milk-cans. The very flowers on the table 
had a special appeal for him ; the silks and satins, the bright eyes and 
white shoulders around him, the refined, melancholy features of Sir 
Hamo as he sat at the head of his guests, made up what was to Ter- 
ence a picture at once rare and beautiful. And beside him, her face 
full of sympathy and readiness to be pleased, sat Nell Tredethlyn. 

Never had Terence been so witty and brilliant as this evening. A 
far duller man might have made a success if borne along, as he now 


89 


was, by such a tide of favoring conditions. His courage had been 
stirred, his self-esteem set a- glowing, by a skilled hand; cordial 
greetings had made his nerves tingle pleasantly ; he was thoroughly 
conscious of being among friends, yet sufficiently a stranger to re- 
tain the first gloss of interest and piquant newness which familiarity 
so quickly makes rusty ; and the sharpest of all spurs to effort was 
pricking him — the desire to warm one special heart and dazzle one 
special pair of eyes. 

Mrs. French -Chichester fell into his mood delightfully; even 
when she never spoke he was conscious that she was supporting 
him. With a difficult or unappreciative audience Terence would 
have been dull and silent, but among these kind friends his talk 
flowed and gleamed like the Chilling stream. He brimmed over 
with Irish anecdote and drollery, while Simon, delighted with his 
friend’s success, kept urging him to fresh efforts. Mrs. French-Chich- 
ester was radiant. Captain Rush, excited perhaps by Kate’s pres- 
ence, contributed a wit of his own — dry, veined with sarcasm, mak- 
ing a useful corrective to Clancy’s wealth of words. Not for many 
a long day had the quiet Hall entertained so mirthful a party. Even 
Sir Hamo’s habitual depression melted under the warmth of their 
genial mood ; and as for that lover of all good things — whether in 
the nature of food, wine, or gossip — Mr. Tredethlyn, his large, 
comely face was ruddy and shining with laughter. “We can’t let 
the man go at any price,” he said to his friend the vicar ; “ he’s bet- 
ter than any liver tonic. Stay in Chillington he shall, if I have to 
buy him a practice myself !” 

Terence laid himself out to be charming, and scored at every sen- 
tence, making every point in his natural equipment tell. Yet he 
never seemed to monopolize the conversation, but rather, by some 
magic of tact and sympathy, made every on® else seem as witty and 
eloquent as himself. 

Mrs. French-Chichester watched this triumphal progress with a 
serene sense of having at length secured a protege really worthy of 
her artistic manipulation. Almost anything might be made of this 
man. Assisted by a clever woman, he had a career before him ; 
handled delicately by a kind friend, there was a vista of possibili- 
ties stretching along his path, and at the end of it, perhaps, a har- 
vest of satisfaction for the kind friend to reap. Truly he was a 
more important person in her sight than he had yet imagined. 

“ Well,” cried the lively widow, throwing herself upon a sofa as 
soon as the ladies had filed into the drawing-room, “ what do you 


40 


all think of my ‘ pretty boy ’ ? Isn’t he superb ? Haven’t I often 
been crying out for an Irishman to put a little life into us vegeta- 
bles down here? Really, I’m ashamed at the amount of laughter I 
have perpetrated this evening ! Wait till he has secured a practice, 
and you’ll see what a clean sweep he’ll make of all our medical fogys 
down here. He’ll ruin them, send them all to the workhouse in a 
body ; your stolid Saxon will never stand against him ! He’s just 
charming now, isn’t he, Nell dear?” 

“ He is, indeed ; so, full of spirit and life, and yet so gentle and 
modest, and — But I never can describe people.” 

“Kate, what have you to say about him ?” 

“He’s pleasing, no doubt; but I’m always a cynic, you know.” 

“Tut, child; don’t be talking of cynicism at three-and-twenty ! 
What have you to say against my ‘ pretty boy ’! ” 

“ Nothing.” 

But Kate spoke with just sufficient lukewarmness to evoke fresh 
enthusiasm from the rest of the party.* Terence’s ears should have 
burned indeed under the chorus of eulogy poured forth in the draw- 
ing-room. 

“ I know they’ll keep him there for ever so long,” concluded Mrs. 
French-Chichester, “for, to speak candidly, men are just walking 
bundles of selfishness. Remember that when you think of matri- 
mony, by-the-bye. Kate, they’re all alike, so choose the richest ! I 
know precisely what is going on in the dining-room at this moment : 
they’re pouring out the wine and making him pour out the wit, and 
they won’t give us a look at him again this hour. Suppose we all 
stroll out on the terrace — we might catch a little fun through the 
open window ? Or perhaps some of you pretty girls might tempt 
the men away from their wine? Nell, dear, you put on a shawl, or 
we shall have Simon and his father rushing out upon us, each with 
an ulster! Or, stay! Go without one, and so we may perhaps 
break up the party. I’ll stand the blame.” 

The manoeuvre was completely successful. The group of ladies, 
relieved against the mist-laden vale and bathed in the warm light of 
the after-glow, made a picture not to be resisted. Peering through 
the window, Clancy espied them, and stopped in the middle of a 
sentence ; Captain Rush, following the other’s glance, pulled mood- 
ily at his mustache, and had nothing more to say. Sir Ilamo, 
catching sight of Nell’s bare shoulders, walked to the window to 
upbraid her imprudence. In three minutes the dining-room was 
empty. 


41 


The ladies moved innocently away without looking behind them ; 
the men streamed out upon the terrace, the dragoon guardsman bring- 
ing up the rear. He was engaged in the struggle between pride and 
inclination that Kate’s presence always induced. Why should he 
go near a woman who despised him ? Contempt was the one thing 
in the world that he found insupportable, and none but Miss Tred- 
ethlyn had the temerity to curve a contumelious lip at him. As a 
Cambridge man, a sportsman, a good fellow (also a rich fellow), he 
had been well enough received by his regiment. He had distin- 
guished himself in one of our small wars, and more — far more — was 
a polo-player of some note. How dared she despise him ? 

The square-jawed, somewhat grim soldier, always showed a stoical 
front, but the fact remained that Kate could torture him almost at 
will — and her will was generally equal to the task. His inferior ori- 
gin was a sore which no success in life could ever quite heal, but the 
woman he admired was apt to make it burn and sting as no one else 
could do. Certain darts of hers were sticking in the place now as 
he came sauntering carelessly behind the other black coats, revolving 
how best to show his indifference. Downright avoidance seemed 
the simplest plan, and was also the hardest. 

Unfortunately, too, Kate happened to be detached from the oth- 
ers, and to glance at him just as his resolution was formed. Per- 
haps she was in a softened mood, perhaps content with the snubbing 
she had already administered this evening ; at any rate, the glance 
was delivered. He deviated a little from his course, so as to avoid 
her ; but — but the twilight was bewitching, and Kate looked passing 
handsome in this light. Not so beautiful as Nell ; her face a shade 
too long and narrow, her bearing many shades too proud. But, un- 
fortunately, this dragoon had a weakness for tall, haughty women. 
He might give her one chance, say just three words, for example; 
and if she chose to treat him as the gravel under her feet, this should 
be his last attempt at civility ; she should be ignored henceforth. 

Captain Rush spoke the words, and was received with a smile — 
not an effusive one, but sufficient, so few and far between were his 
encouragements, to upset good resolutions in a trice. 

They fell in behind the others, but their conversation dragged. 
It is difficult to be agreeable when clogged by anxious pride ; and 
neither would so far relax as to make a genuine effort. Presently 
they halted at the top of some steps, whence a path led down through 
the shrubberies to the brook-side. 

“ What would I give to take her down there ?” thought the soldier. 


42 


“ Why doesn’t he offer to take me ?” thought Kate. 

“ Why don’t you two go and have a look at the stream ? I shall 
be sending Nell and Clancy after you directly.” 

It was the voice of Simon, the ever-ready helper of lame dogs 
over stiles. 

The pair stepped down immediately, without a word, each vowing 
secretly that Simon was a good friend. 

Very different was Clancy’s plan of attack from the dragoon’s. 
He felt reckless of appearances. It was his last evening, his last 
chance; and in a forlorn hope audacity is the only policy. Pie 
walked bodly up to Nell, and easily succeeded in detaching her 
from the others ; indeed, Nell fell in readily enough with his plans, 
for the simple reason that she had a message from Simon to deliver, 
and might not have so good an opportunity for some time. 

Before they had gone many yards Simon joined them. 

“ I won’t give her up,” muttered Terence. “ I won’t throw away 
my last chance to please any man living !” 

“ Terence, old boy, suppose you take charge of Miss Tredethlyn 
for a quarter of an hour ? I am going to have a weed with the 
vicar.” 

“ The man’s nothing short of a fool,” thought Terence ; “ but, 
if he will thrust me into temptation, let him take the conse- 
quences !” 

Nell seemed pleased with the arrangement, exchanging, however, 
a significant glance with her betrothed, which puzzled Terence not 
a little, and damped his ardor somewhat. 

“ Shall we stroll down to the brook, Mr. Clancy ?” she asked, with 
her ravishing smile ; and straightway glamour and hope wrapped 
themselves round him again. 

For Terence it was an enchanted garden through which they 
walked. For once in his life he was not out in the cold, for once 
circumstances were kind to him, allowing the melody of hope to 
rise and swell unchecked. He knew that his best chance lay in 
Nell’s sheer inability to suspect ; that his cue was to arouse her 
sympathy, appeal to her kindly feeling. With her, pity would be 
more nearly akin to love than with most people. 

He began to speak to her of himself, of his poverty and strug- 
gles, and very sweet was the sympathy with which she listened. It 
was impossible to avoid deceiving her a little. That was not his 
fault, the deceit being a part of man’s natural tendency towards the 
picturesque fallacy. Without intentional misleading on Terence’s 


43 


part, people had rushed to a picturesque conclusion concerning him 
— to wit, that he was a poor gentleman, a small landed proprietor, 
compelled to undertake a professional career by his unwillingness to 
oppress poor tenants. He had never proclaimed this in so many 
words ; it had been evolved from the neighborhood’s inner con- 
sciousness — at least, in a large degree. In plain truth, Terence 
Clancy was the son of a small farmer in County Cork, whose only 
tenants were a few cottiers; and who perhaps received about 
twenty pounds a year from this source — when rents happened to be 
paid. As the clever one of the family, Terence had, by dint of 
much scraping and the assistance of friends, been sent to an English 
public school, and being now fairly launched on the world, was ex- 
pected to make his fortune, and become the main-stay of half a 
dozen little brothers and sisters. 

Upon reaching the brook-side, they rambled along it until close 
upon the bridge over which ran the lane to Monks Damerel village. 
There they halted upon a patch of greensward, and Nell turned to 
him with a sparkle of kindly triumph in her eyes — 

“ I ought to feel mean for letting you run on so, Mr. Clancy ; 
but I couldn’t resist the temptation of giving you a great surprise. 
I have a curious piece of news for you, in the shape of a message 
from Simon. You mustn’t disappoint him ! Oh, you mustn't ! 
He would feel it so deeply if you refused. You know how anxious 
he has been to have you settled near him ? He has been working 
to that end without saying a word to any one but me, and now has 
actually achieved it this very afternoon ; if you will but consent to 
let him do you that much service. You must consent, for he has 
handed over to me the privilege of persuading you, and I’ve prom- 
ised to succeed. Will you say ‘ Yes ’ before I tell you ?” 

“ I shall find it hard enough to say ‘ No ’ to anything you 
ask.” 

“I’m not so sure about that; men are so dreadfully proud — at 
least, I know Simon is, though he scoffs at the notion. Well, this 
secret of his is — he didn’t half like telling it you himself, and now 
I’m quite nervous about it — the fact is, Simon has been talking 
business with old Dr. Rose lately, and this evening they came to — 
to some arrangement, by which Dr. Rose is to retire, and you, Mr. 
Clancy, are to take his practice. Oh, pray don’t refuse, or I shall 
put it down to my clumsiness and want of delicacy !” 

Terence almost gasped with astonishment. Dr. Rose’s was the 
practice of the neighborhood, worth more than Terence had hoped 


44 


to be earning after twenty years’ work. In a flash he saw that, 
were this news true, his fortune was made. With his personality 
and gift of pleasing he could, having a fine ready-built practice to 
work upon, rise to almost any height of success. But this business 
was worth a large sum of money ; could Simon be so preposterously 
generous even for a friend ? No need to ask the question ; it an- 
swered itself. Very rightly had his cousin called him “ Timon.” 

“Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends 
And ne’er be weary.” 

So said Timon of Athens, and Timon of Chillington might have 
claimed the sentiment as his own. His friend’s romantic gener- 
osity brought quick responsive throbs from Terence. How mean 
and shabby and poor he felt ; he who had but now been trying to 
undo the happiness of his benefactor. What mean pitiful sophistry 
had he been guilty of up to this moment ! After this he felt he 
would rather die than injure Simon. Nev'er another thought of 
Nell would he harbor beyond what a brother might. It was a 
marvel, this gift of Simon’s ; an act of unparalleled generosity. 
Simon had been borrowing money lately, as Terence knew, his 
father being tired of supplying the wherewithal to carry out his 
philanthropic schemes. He had been borrowing the money which 
was to give his friend this start in life. Terence rushed to the con- 
clusion, and knew it to be a true one. 

As he stood looking amazedly at Nell, his face on fire, his 
thoughts in a whirl, there was a sound of wheels, and a rough 
pony -cart came down the lane from Monks Damerel. Its driver 
was John Syme, who had been visiting a farmer’s wife on the 
moor a mile or two beyond the village. There was light enough 
for him to see the pair by the stream, even to catch Clancy’s 
eye as he passed. Syme was whirled quickly by, but his look of 
exulting comprehension remained with Terence. 

“ You’re wrong, though. Jack Syme, quite wrong,” he muttered, 
turning to Nell as she began to speak again. 

“I do hope you’re not going to refuse,” she said, uneasily. “The 
disappointment would be so painful to Simon.” 

Terence smiled at the comical attitude of these Arcadians. Re- 
fuse? Why, in the name of common-sense, should he refuse? He 
would not even affect hesitation. All that was honest and generous 
in him responded to this proposed gift of Simon’s, and he let her 


45 


see it. He called him a benefactor, poured out words that came 
hot from his heart, and brought tears to Nell’s tender eyes. 

“ I must see the old fellow alone to-night,” he concluded, “thouo-h 
I can never tell him half that I feel. Speak to him first, I beseech 
you. Tell him that I have it in me to cry like a woman — that I 
shall do so if I attempt to say much.” 

“ Yes, I’ll tell him,” said Nell, with a glad laugh. 

A\ill ye shake hands with me now?” he cried, in his eager 
boyish way ; “ will ye shake hands and conclude the matter so ? 
There, ’tis a bargain.” 

Terence laughed, too, though his eyes were moist. 

“ Ah, how like Simon is the whole transaction !” 

Her praise gave Terence a pang of jealousy, but he stifled it 
manfully. 

“ None of that, Terence Clancy !” quoth he to himself; “if ye 
don’t play fair and stand by old Simon now. I’ll never trust ye 
again, you scamp !” 

As Nell and Clancy walked back along the brook-side, still glow- 
ing with the wonderful secret, they were met by Captain Rush and 
Miss Tredethlyn. 

Rush did not appear to have advanced his suit much this even- 
ing. He wore the caustic smile of one who has just discharged a 
sarcasm and seen it hit the mark. He looked a trifle reckless, too, 
as though he had been fighting battles with his tall companion to 
the detriment of his own interests, as was actually the case. In fact, 
any intercourse between these two was apt to end in combat, in the 
clash of her arrogance with his pride. 

Kate, with a view, perhaps, to support herself against any weak 
leaning towards this son of a tailor, would always contrive to throw 
down an apple of discord, in the shape of some question of exclu- 
siveness or caste prejudice, and so to sting him into retorting with 
the sentiments of a socialist agitator. Thus their dialogue usually 
bristled with sarcasm and polite bitterness, and the foolish pair usu- 
ally parted in bad temper and mutual enmity. 

This time, however, circumstances gave them an opportunity of 
unwonted accord, for when they came suddenly upon Nell and 
Clancy, looking excited and happy, evidently on the best of 
terms, a look of uneasiness was exchanged between Captain Rush 
and his companion. Without a word they joined themselves on 
to the other pair, Kate quietly taking possession of Clancy, Rush 
opening an immediate conversation with Nell regarding the beau- 


46 


ty of the evening. And so they all four returned to the terrace 
together. 

When Nell whispered the brief tale of her success, Simon exulted 
as boyishly as Terence himself. He had not the least conception 
that he had just accomplished a rather clever stroke, and cried 
“ Check !” to two dangerous enemies. 


CHAPTER VII 


The next few weeks were a time of pause for Terence and his 
group of friends — a quiet period during which nothing seemed to 
happen, though the seeds of future events may have been in process 
of sowing by unwitting hands. 

Terence himself was for the most part occupied in driving about 
the neighborhood with Dr. Rose, learning the weaknesses and weak 
sides of the various county families whose ailments made the bulk of 
the practice. It soon became evident that the well-lined mantle of 
the old doctor would descend upon Terence intact and sit without a 
crease. He took in the good-will of the business, as it were, at every 
pore, and made a new group of friends every time he stepped down 
from Dr. Rose’s dog-cart. It was a unique experience for Terence — 
this feeling that his future was assured, that grinding anxiety was no 
more, the hair-shirt of poverty stripped off ; that in a week or two 
he would be a man of substance, possessing a decent house, and a 
stable with a couple of horses. In truth, Simon was not one to do 
anything by halves, least of all any extravagance on behalf of a friend ; 
the agreement to be signed shortly would put Terence in possession 
not only of a flourishing business, but the well-furnished house, large 
garden, and other appurtenances of the old doctor’s establishment on 
the hill. For Dr. Rose was himself about to remove from the town, 
to emerge from the pupal stage of country practitioner into the full- 
winged imago^ a country-gentleman. 

A quiet period and, at least for the first week or two, a cheery one 
for that sunny fellow, Terence Clancy. He blossomed afresh under 
the warm influence of prosperity, was so full of brightness and life 
as to be more sought after than ever. Take Mr. Tredethlyn, for in- 
stance. The large, good-natured parson suffered a good deal from 
an ailment seldom called by its right name — idleness. Good feeding 
and old port were insufficiently corrected by a drive into Chillington 
once a day and a couple of hours spent at the little club afterwards. 
His liver demanded something more than carriage-exercise and a 
friendly gossip, with perhaps an hour’s pottering in the garden. He 
suffered much about this time from headache and depression, and 


48 


Terence prescribed for him. In fact, with a good liver tonic, and his 
own genial society, Terence wrought a miraculous cure. The uni- 
verse brightened once more for Mr. Tredethlyn, the bitter pessimism 
that comes of dyspepsia was lightened, the charm of easy lounging 
began once more to assert itself. His gratitude was deep and large ; 
for, rare as that virtue may be, the successful treatment of a man’s 
liver will evoke it if he possess a human heart at all. 

Thus, with every intention of avoiding the Tredethlyns, Terence 
constantly found himself on the road to Moor Gates. If there were 
no invitation from Mr. Tredethlyn, Simon himself would be sure to 
drive his friend over on some excuse or other. 

Simon was in Chillington almost every day just now, looking after 
some allotment gardens, for which he had given a piece of land be- 
low the town, or putting finishing touches to the White House, as 
Terence’s new home on the hill was named. Towards evening he 
would usually look in upon bis friend, and often enough would carry 
him off to Moor Gates there and then. It was such an easy way of 
giving pleasure to every one, himself included. The whole house- 
hold welcomed Terence. Even Kate, who would never fully sub- 
scribe to the general admiration of the young doctor, admitted that 
she found pleasure in his company. As for Mr. Tredethlyn, he was 
musical as well as liverish, and always crying out at his daughters for 
not giving him music enough. Nell sang fairly well, but never 
reached above mediocrity, while Kate was no performer at all. Now, 
Clancy wanted style and finish, but his ear was perfect, the quality 
of his tenor excellent ; and Nell’s contralto made a good second. Mr. 
Tredethlyn liked their duets, and made them practice together a good 
deal. 

“You’re up at Moor Gates three or four times a week, ain’t you, 
Terence?” asked Syme one afternoon, as they sat smoking together. 

The question seemed innocent enough, springing naturally from 
what had gone before, yet Terence winced uneasily. He disliked 
talking about the Tredethlyns with Syme, as the latter was well 
aware. 

“ Well, yes ; I’m up there pretty often. Mr. Tredethlyn has taken 
a sort of fancy to me, and they are all very kind and hospitable.” 

“ And Secretan is constantly driving you up there ?” 

“ Simon’s a friendly old fellow, certainly.” 

Terence shifted his feet uneasily; a slight fiush of annoyance was 
detected by his companion, who sat mumbling the stem of his pipe 
between his thick lips. No need for further question. Syme was 


49 


satisfied that he had gauged Terence’s mental condition to a nicety. 
He was of opinion that his impressionable friend was every day fall- 
ing more deeply in love with Nell, while bent upon never admitting 
it to himself for fear of his own conscience ; that he meant to let 
things slide on as they would, and thus, in the event of a climax, to 
find himself in a position to answer the accusing voice with, “ I 
meant nothing ; I never dreamed of such a thing. It is fate !” 

Though himself of much coarser grain, Syme was able to probe 
and analyze the complex nature of Terence Clancy, and knew pre- 
cisely why he was now sometimes depressed amid all his elation ; 
knew that the differing elements in his character were engaged in 
constant drawn battles at this period ; that one hour generosity and 
rectitude had the mastery, and the next slippery self-love. This 
psychological study was an interesting pastime for Syme, the more 
so because he fully expected the issue of the struggle to jump with 
his own desires. 

“ Ah, here is Secretan !” he exclaimed, after a pause, pointing to 
Simon, who had just driven past and was pulling up at Clancy’s 
lodgings. “ Come to fetch brother Terence as usual, I suppose ?” 

“ I sha’n’t go with him ; I’m going out fishing.” 

There was an ugly frown on Terence’s face. 

“ Why, man alive, you’ll disappoint them all up at Moor Gates !” 

Syme was careful not to mention names, but could not resist play- 
ing with his friend. 

“ I sha’n’t go,” Clancy reiterated, angrily. “ I shall send your boy 
across to say I’ve gone out fishing and sha’n’t be back for hours.” 

“ Poor Simon ! Has he offended his affectionate friend ?” 

“ Curse your sneering ways. Jack Syme ; I hate to hear you speak 
of Simon !” 

“ Lucky man ! What a friend he has ! A man who can’t bear a 
word against him— loves him like a brother, and will stand by him 
through thick and thin !” 

Terence’s temper was going and his caution with it. 

“ So I would stand by him — and will, if he ever wants a friend.” 

“ Lord preserve him from his friends, then !” grinned Syme. 

“ What do you mean ? What do you insinuate ?” cried the other, 
striding fiercely across the room. 

“ There, be aisy, Pat ! You fly out like an angry woman ! What 
should I insinuate, man ? I’m as innocent as a babe.” 

“ I hate your damned sneering ways !” 

“A starving doctor must work off his spleen somehow, Terence; 

4 


60 


and a man can’t always be cussing. Come, you’ve known what it is 
to be poor and bitter yourself.” 

“ Why are you always so down on old Simon, who is the best 
fellow alive? Because, forsooth, an old woman died, thanks to your 
being the worse for liquor and incapable of attending her, and 
Simon — ” 

“ Because,” cried Syme, in a savage voice, which made Terence’s 
wrath seem thin and trifling as a girl’s — “ because he chose to de- 
nounce me for that slip, to spoil my chance, take the bread out of 
my mouth. Damn his virtuous tongue and maudlin benevolence. I 
mean to be even with him for all that !” 

“ Well, that was hard. Jack. I feel for you there ; having known 
the sting of poverty myself, as you say. But now I’m coming in 
for this practice, I shall be able to give you a hand, old fellow — pass 
you on some patients ; and, if business flourishes, maybe I shall want 
an assistant.” 

“ Upon my soul, you’re a good-hearted fellow, Terence, though — 
a bit slippery,” Syme was going to add ; but had the grace to check 
his tongue. 

“ And as for old Simon, I can’t tell you what he has been to me, 
how consumed with impotent gratitude towards him I feel. Well, 
now I must make a start down the river, so lend me your rod and 
fly- book. Jack.” 

Jack Syme watched his friend march cheerfully off down the road 
to the stile and into the meadows, stopping to wave his rod before 
he disappeared by the river. 

“ He means well,” mused Syme. “ But Lord help Secretan all the 
same !” 

As Terence sauntered by Chilling water, stopping to make a cast 
here and there in leisurely fashion, he was flushed with a glow of 
conscious virtue. He felt that there was genuine nobility in his re- 
nunciation of the evening’s pleasure at Moor Oates. Pleasure ! That 
was a mild term for the satisfying happiness of being with — with 
people who understood and appreciated him. What was she doing 
at this moment? Practising the second of the new duet they were 
to have sung to-night? Would she be a little disappointed when 
Simon drove up without his friend ? Terence thought so, and the 
thought sent a swirl of pleasure through his system, followed by a 
sour reaction. It was hard to be loaded with gratitude, to be chained 
like a dog to a post, to be given his food and drink and have his 
body pampered while his soul starved. What — what unutterable 


51 


happiness ! Yes, yes, it had truly come to that — happiness beside 
which mere material prosperity was as nothing, was set just beyond 
his reach, just outside the utmost stretch of his chain ! Should he 
cast off this chain, refuse Simon’s gift, frankly and honestly enter 
the lists against him ? Why should sweet Nell be sacrificed on the 
altar of honor? Oh, curse these trammels of conventionality, by 
which warm hearts were kept from beating! Refuse the gift — win 
and wear Nell ? The idea was magnificent, intoxicating ! But could 
she be won, with her quixotic fidelity, her rigid sense of truth and 
loyalty ? 

“ No, no ; she’s no true woman,” muttered Terence, resentfully. 
“ With her, honor comes before love. And if I failed, what a mo- 
rass of poverty before me !” 

He sighed heavily. Never had the craving for sympathetic appre- 
ciation been so strong upon him. He reeled up his line quickly, and 
began to hasten his steps as though making for some definite goal. 

Deep down in the Hollacomb woods there was an elbow of the 
river called “ Black Pool,” into which the narrowed Chilling foamed 
and gushed over great black -green bowlders. A favorite spot of 
Terence’s ; a place lost in the still seclusion of wooded hills, whither 
a breeze hardly ever found its way. No one else came there — at 
least, hardly any one. One person he had met there sometimes. 
She might be there to-day ; and he yearned for a sympathetic lis- 
tener to whom he might hint his troubles. At any rate. Black Pool 
was worth a trial to-day. 

Hot and weary he at length reached his goal, emerging from the 
oak coppice onto the narrow ribbon of mossy grass that bordered 
the pool. But Fate was as harsh as usual — no one was there. 

He threw himself down irritably among the bowlders, and watched 
the yellow foam -clots creeping slowly past upon the deep heaving 
swirl of the backwater. He cast Syme’s rod down sulkily, and the 
slender top-joint snapped in its socket. He could not even fish then ; 
there was nothing left him but a three-mile tramp homeward through 
the stifling woods. The picture of the cool garden at Moor Gates 
recurred to Terence insistently. Was Nell sitting at the corner of 
the larch plantation now ? Would she really care when-— Hark ! 
What was that? Surely the crisp rip -rip of a woman’s drapery 
among the brake-fern. His mood changed in a moment, his face 
brightened, a smile hovered about the corners of his mouth. 

“ ’Tis Mary, after all, sure as Pm a sinner ! Well, Mary, where 
have ye hidden yourself ^11 these years and months?” 


Mary Pethick was dressed coquettishly in a cream-colored frock 
with pink ribbons peeping out of its cunning-simple folds; but her 
manner was dull and depressed. The pretty curves of her mouth 
drooped like those of a tired child as she shook hands with Terence. 

“ Was the pink and cream designed for me or Ezekiel ?” thought 
he. “ What ails ye at all ?” he asked, aloud. 

“ Oh, I hate the world, and every one in it — that’s all !” 

“ That’s a good sweeping statement, Mary, and I hope it ’ll ease 
your mind.” 

Terence perceived that his role must, after all, be that of listener, 
that his grievances must needs wait awhile. 

“ Pray don’t laugh at me, Mr. Clancy. I can’t bear it now, I am 
so miserable !” 

It was clear that a shower was imminent; and Terence’s ready 
sympathy, creeping into his eyes and voice, hastened its arrival. A 
woman’s tears had always a powerful appeal for good-natured Ter- 
ence. He took her hand and stroked it. 

“ Come, child, tell me what ails you.” 

He was much tempted to kiss away her tears, but something with- 
held him. He had enjoyed many friendly, semi-flirting interviews 
with pretty Mary, but had never kissed her; and, as it was, she 
cared for him perhaps a little more than he wished. In fact, Ter- 
ence had unheedingly drifted into the peculiar position of finding 
two women, both apparently trembling on the verge of love for him, 
and each formally betrothed to another man. The situation was 
intensely titivating to his vanity, while at the same time it filled him 
with uneasiness. He could not, without grievous loss of self-respect, 
make open love to Nell — at least he always tried to refrain from do- 
ing so. Yet so hard was the task of thus deliberately throwing 
away happiness that he needed the consolation and encouragement 
of a sentimental friendship with Mary in order to carry it through ; 
while the secrecy and danger attending upon this friendship — for 
Terence had a heartfelt dread of Ezekiel Doidge — gave it a special 
zest and flavor. 

As the tears fell from Mary’s hazel eyes, Terence had one of his 
good impulses. Why not, he put it to himself, throw aside this 
playing with edge-tools up at Moor Gates and ask pretty Mary to be 
his wife? He would never be happy — never, as he felt in his best 
moments, be quite straight and loyal to his friend — until he were 
definitely bound to some one who would keep a jealous eye upon 
him. Mary was, perhaps, a little vain and shallow, but really gentle 


63 


and good-hearted, and somewhat of an heiress, too. Her deaf 
old father, with whom she lived in the solitary Hollacomb Farm, 
was a retired tradesman of Chillington, a “ warm man,” as people 
said, and she was his only child. Mary was refined and accom- 
plished, moreover; she held her head far above the tradesmen’s 
daughters of the town, leading a very lonely life in consequence. 
Her birth was no serious bar, from Terence’s point of view ; he was 
psasant-born himself. And as the wife of the leading doctor of the 
neighborhood, she would probably make her way well enough, he 
considered. As for Ezekiel Doidge, she would doubtless throw him 
over without hesitation, were the brilliant Terence to hold up his 
finger. Ah ! there was the hitch. A prize so easily captured seemed 
hardly worth the winning; there was no romance, no fascinating 
“ perhaps ” in the matter. Yet Terence was much moved in this 
direction, the good impulse was strong within him. Mary’s future, 
as well as that of several others, was hanging in the balance just 
now, and much would depend, did she but know it, upon how she han- 
dled Terence, now that the good impulse had made him workable. 

Mary did not begin well. With a man of quick perceptions like 
Mr. Clancy she should have been always on her guard, always at her 
very best, always endeavoring to veil the natural selfishness of a 
spoiled girl. To enlarge upon Ezekiel’s tiresome devotion was hard- 
ly the way to evoke the worship of another man ; but she was too 
full of her troublesome lover to keep silence about him. She de- 
scribed, in a querulous, half-tearful way, his jealous exactions, his 
insistent desire to possess her every thought, hope, and feeling. She 
told how he had lately purchased, simply with a view to exalting 
himself in her eyes, the Chillington Free Press, and now did half 
the editing work himself ; how he flooded its columns with long, 
flowery articles from his own pen, and always persisted in reading 
them aloud for her edification. 

“And, would you believe it, Mr. Clancy,” she concluded, “Ezekiel 
has taken to the violin ! Just to please me he slaves away at it 
half through the night, and for it neglects much of his business at 
the mill during the day. He wishes to accompany me in my songs 
— me, and he has no ear ! It is horrible to hear him saw his way 
through true notes and false with equal ardor. Ah ! if he would 
but be satisfied with his literary compositions and spare me that 
dreadful music! But I don’t know what he wouldn’t attempt to 
win my approval.” 

“ I see what it is,” commented Terence, when her outburst had 


B4 


come to an end, “ the man is fool enough to care for you too much. 
That’s fatal with any woman, and with most men as well. Too 
much love is far worse than too little — a hateful truth, isn’t it? a 
painful comment upon poor human nature.” 

Mary only pouted and was silent. She wanted, not philosophic 
analysis, but sympathetic appreciation. She thought Mr. Clancy 
would have been jealous of her lover’s devotion, while he seemed to 
regard it simply in the light of an interesting phenomenon. 

“ You don’t feel for me a bit !” she cried, petulantly. “ You don’t 
care how wretched I am! You haven’t been here for weeks; you 
don’t know what a burden I have to bear. I’m afraid of Ezekiel ; 
and you can’t say that I’ve been untrue to him, for I never pretend- 
ed to love him.” 

“Why not throw him over, Mary? Surely that would be the 
honest thing to do ?” 

“I dare not! you don’t know him. He has strange notions 
about justice and punishing people. I fear him — oh, I fear him 1 
I dread even to think of these meetings of ours coming to his ears. 
He would punish me, and you, too, in some dreadful way. You 
laugh now, but you wouldn’t then ; you don’t know Ezekiel. Mr. 
Clancy, I do hope you never mention my name to a human soul ?” 

“ Why, of course not, Mary.” 

“I haven’t courage or strength,” continued Mary, with emotion, 
“to get clear of Ezekiel by myself. He hangs upon me like an old 
man of the sea.” 

“ Couldn’t your father help you ?” 

“No, no, no ! He reveres Ezekiel, and fears him too, and is bent 
upon my marrying him. You see, Ezekiel owns a good deal of 
land, as well as the flourishing business of the mill. He is the 
wealthiest man in Chillington, and hardly considers even the county 
people above him ; in fact, he looks upon your friend Mr. Secretan 
as a sort of rival.” 

Terence laughed. 

“ Sure the man’s an hysterical fool. Why ever did you get en- 
gaged to him, Mary ?” 

“It was just vanity, I suppose,” she answered, simply. “It was 
so delicious to have the important, clever Mr. Doidge half dying for 
love of me. x\h, he was in earnest too, and is still. I can’t tell you 
how he loves me — poor Ezekiel I” 

“Oh, well, if you pity him so much as all that — ” 

“Yes — but I pity myself more.” 


65 


“Then you must shake yourself clear, my good child; not all of 
a sudden, but gradually. Make it unpleasant for him ; treat him 
with doses of coldness and slow-torturing jealousy, and, bedad ! he’ll 
be glad enough to be rid o’ ye.” 

“ But wouldn’t that be rather — mean ?” Mary asked, with a dep- 
recating blush. 

“ By the powers I if you’re too timid to speak out, and too high- 
flown even for innocent manoeuvring, ye’d better fix your wedding- 
day and have done with it.” 

“ Pray don’t be angry with me !” pleaded the girl, humbly. 
“You’re the only friend I have. There’s not a soul in the place for 
me to confide in, except you and — and I’m so very miserable.” 

Terence was angry at her implied rebuke of him ; but all the same 
she had risen in his estimation. Mary was more honest, sounder at 
the core, than he had thought. Without knowing it, she was now 
pleading her own cause, not ineffectually. His little fit of temper 
passed quickly. He eyed Mary furtively as she sat before him on 
the rock, her small hands folded in her lap. In her humble, plead- 
ing mood, with gentle hazel eyes swimming, she looked very pretty 
and alluring. Again did Terence ask himself, “Why not?” and 
“ Should I be safe with her ?” 

There was something almost pathetic in his self-distrust, his desire 
to be held straight, tied down, kept true. If he lacked stability, he 
was far from lacking kind feeling ; and just now he was entering 
upon one of those self-luminous moments that come at times to most 
men, the brief epochs when the diflScult command, “ Know thyself,” 
can really be obeyed. With swift shame he realized through what 
a morass of small treacheries he had been wading lately ; how he had 
been making covert love to Nell day by day, cunningly and carefully 
planning how to lull any possible suspicions of those around her, 
luring her into caring for him by imperceptible degrees. His every 
look and word had been a disloyalty to his friend. With swift pen- 
itence he swore now to purge himself of this trickery and falsehood- 
A1 ready, perhaps, he had compromised Nell’s peace of mind, re- 
duced to a minimum his benefactor’s chance of married happiness. 
Simon should nurse an adder no longer. Terence vowed to draw 
out his own treacherous sting, to be a true and faithful friend from 
this day forth. Ah, how cheering and cleansing was this resolution ! 
Already Terence felt a stirring akin to the exaltation of a Wolsey upon 
finding “the blessedness of being little”: “the blessedness of being 
honest is better still,” he muttered. 


66 


Mary saw that he was engaged in a mental wrestle as he strode to 
and fro on the narrow strip of green. A soft glow of happiness 
began to steal over her. He was coming nearer to her ; the gallant, 
the handsome, the admired Terence Clancy was really growing to 
love her. How gladly, with his love to sustain and prop her weak- 
ness, would she extricate herself from this hateful engagement, aye, 
and would make Terence a good and faithful wife. She loved him ; 
she knew it now. It had come upon her quite suddenly. She 
turned her swimming eyes upon him, and his own caught fire at 
their shining. 

He drew nearer to her ; his flushed face was bending down to 
hers, his hand seeking her hand. Almost — almost she had won him! 

Alas for poor Mary ! At the very moment of her triumph Clancy 
paled, starting back hastily. 

“Some one is coming!” he whispered, glancing nervously up- 
stream ; “ a fisherman, I think. Good Heaven, ’tis that black Eze- 
kiel himself ! Run, Mary I Meet me here this time three days 
hence. I sha’n’t be free before. Run hard, child !” 

He had snatched up his rod and switched flies and gut anyhow 
among the eddies before Mary had well disappeared. 

“Well met, doctor — well met, sir!” Ezekiel was exclaiming five 
minutes afterwards. “ Fishing away hard, I see. I’m trying to get 
a trout or two myself for — for my sweetheart, Mary.” 

The strong dark man blushed like a girl ; his voice grew tender 
with the mention of his sweetheart’s name. 

“You haven’t chanced to see her about here, I reckon, mister?” 

“No, no; Miss Petherick do you mean?” 

“ Pethick’s the name, sir — Mary Pethick.” 

“ No, I’ve seen no one.” 

“ Well, she don’t often come down to the river, on account of the 
steep climb up to the farm. She walks by the canal mostly. Reckon 
I’ll start up-along at once.” 

“ Stop a minute, and give me a hint or two about your local flies ; 
there’s a good fellow.” 

“ You’m welcome to all my knowledge, mister; an’ I know more 
about fishing than any one for miles round. Your flies are too small 
for our Chilling, I see. You want a good-sized Red Spinner with 
gold twist, an Oak, and a Blue Upright. That’s your cast for to- 
day. Take some o’ my flies, doctor ; they’m better tied than any 
you’ll buy about here. Take the whole bookful, for I’m in a hurry.” 

“ You’re awfully good-natured, I’m sure. Don’t let me keep you. 


51 


One moment, though. What do you think of these little Gray 
Spiders ?” 

“Ain’t worth a damn,” cried Doidge, impatiently. Before the 
words were out of his mouth he had plunged into the woods. 

“She has got a fair start,” muttered Terence. “But may the 
devil fly away with that cock-a-hoop, omniscient fool for giving me 
such a scare !” 

Then he wended his way homeward, somewhat chilled and de- 
pressed, as well as frightened at his narrow escape. Fate always 
seemed to thwart him in his good moments, and to hustle him for- 
ward in his bad ones. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The so-called “ canal,” beside which stood her solitary home — Hol- 
lacorab Farm — was a gently-sliding piece of water that seemed to 
Mary Pethick to have been running through her life like a thread, 
binding the simple incidents together, and serving as a connecting- 
link between the dull-gray home-existence and the brighter possibil- 
ities of Chillington town. This canal was simply an artificial stream 
or leat, by which a portion of the limpid Chilling was conducted 
from its main bed (a dam being formed just below the town bridge 
to facilitate the operation), past a couple of disused mines, and so 
into the only big river of the neighborhood, the Culmer. The leat 
had been designed as a carrier for the two mines ; but their owner 
having failed about the time of its completion the workings were 
discontinued, and the little river never knew the burden of a single 
hundredweight of metal. It began its career by running briskly 
through the vicarage garden ; then, losing energy as it drew away 
from its foaming parent, dawdled curvingly through the meadows 
below John Syme’s surgery, under the stone bridge which carried 
the Monks Damerel road ; past the new church and last outlying cot- 
tages of the town, and so vanished into the leafy fastnesses of Hol- 
lacomb. 

The path beside the canal, as being the only route townward, was 
more than familiar to Mary. She would fall out with the little stream 
as with a friend — one day walking briskly along it to some musical 
triumph at the town-hall, the next mooning sadly along its banks, 
complaining of the emptiness of her lot. She would, in fanciful 
moods, share her griefs and pleasures with this friendly companion, 
or throw a brace of leaflets upon its surface to represent herself and 
the lover of the moment. For, to speak frankly, Mary had accepted 
the adoration of quite a little army of lovers. Her musical talents, 
coquetry, and other attractions had wrought much havoc in the neigh- 
borhood; the cream of all the young shopkeepers of the town and 
well-to-do farmers from the country round had been at Mary’s feet. 

Nor was there any one to keep the girl in check. The deaf old 
father left her to go her own way ; her only other relations in the 


69 


place, the two ancient Miss Pethicks, who kept the circulating library, 
had all the will to keep a tight rein on Mary, but lacked the neces- 
sary judgment and nicety of hand. Too much flicking with whip 
and sawing with bit had induced that state of nervous irritation in 
which retaliation upon the occupant of the box seat becomes the 
main object in life. Thus Mary never acquired a new sweetheart with- 
out straightway parading him before the eyes of those critical aunts ; 
and doubtless one of her minor objections to Ezekiel was the satis- 
faction her engagement to him gave the Miss Pethicks. Not that 
they made her pleasant speeches upon the subject, but rather were 
careful to declare, with the native fatuity of spiteful people, that the 
wealthy and respected Mr. Doidge was a deal too good for their 
feather-headed niece. 

Ezekiel himself, to do him justice, had now — whatever had been 
his former views — no thought of being too good for Mary. Perhaps 
she was the only created being to whom he did not think himself 
superior; but towards her he had learned to show a humility quite 
at variance with the main drift of his character, which sometimes 
touched her deeply, sometimes encouraged her to bully him. For 
poor Ezekiel managed to be over-intense in* his humility, as he had 
been in his arrogance, and as he would be in all things to the end 
of the chapter. He was a man as little understood by his public as 
Simon Secretan himself. Some people went so far as to call him 
half-crazy, hinting darkly that there was madness in the Doidge fam- 
ily ; others thought the hot Celtic blood inherited from a long line 
of Cornish ancestors was enough to account for even his vagaries of 
passion. At any rate, his fierce devotion to Mary was a kind of fur- 
nace in which many of his faults had been burned up and purged 
away. 

How this perfervid and peculiar lover would eventually fare at the 
hands of so wayward, and presumably shallow, a girl as Mary Pe- 
thick people often wondered ; but by being present at a single inter- 
view between them we may be in a position to make forecasts on our 
own account. 

It is the day but one after Mary’s interview with Terence Clancy 
by Black Pool. Ezekiel has been spending the best part of the 
afternoon at the farm, practising the violin, and has the instrument 
tucked under his arm now as he and Mary stroll by the canal. 

At the present moment he is hardly recognizable as the overbear- 
ing Mr. Doidge of the Mill, whose arrogance, as his enemies have 
been known to declare, mars the peace of a whole community. His 


60 


hard, black eyes are softened ; his brow smoothed ; his shabby clothes, 
which are generally understood to be part of his greatness, have been 
changed for decent attire ; the whole physical aspect of the man 
speaks to the softening effect of Mary’s presence. 

This kinder mood has been commoner with him lately ; all those 
about him have remarked his growing forbearance. Bitter experi- 
ence has at last taught him that to be at one moment a door-mat for 
a man to trample upon, at the next a lay figure whereon to exhibit 
his general superiority, is not the ideal of all women — a useful dis- 
covery; but, meantime, what of Mary? 

She has been meeting Terence Clancy, basking in the sympathy 
of a softer, more genial nature than Ezekiel’s — in the friendship of 
a man his superior in culture, breeding, and every outward quality 
that makes for love. She is thinking of Terence now — thinking with 
gentle melancholy of the parting by the pool, and with a strange 
fluttering hope of the “ meeting on the morrow.” By nature she is 
wayward, not false; but these two men — one by hard superiority, 
the other by dangerous, unthinking kindness — have sapped her fealty, 
prepared the soil of her heart for a crop of treachery to be reaped 
in due season. 

“ Mary dear,” says Ezekiel, stooping to look in her face, “ you’re 
a little witch. You’ve been making odd changes in me lately. I let 
off a mill-hand with a reprimand this morning, whom a month ago I 
should have sent packing. Somehow I’ve got to think that bare jus- 
tice doesn’t sum up the whole duty of man to his fellow — ” 

“ Well, you’ve never stopped at bare justice, Ezekiel; you’ve gone 
far beyond that in dealing with your fellow-man ; you’ve given him 
cutting criticism, hard words, and many other little extras. Pray 
don’t upbraid yourself too readily !” 

“ You are hard, bitter hard to-day, Mary. Ah, you know how to 
wound a man when you’re in this mood !” 

“ Yes; I’ve borrowed some of your nature. One can’t touch pitch 
without being defiled, you know.” 

Ezekiel’s pale face — he is a pale man, though broad-framed and 
muscular — is full of pain. 

“ Don’t be too hard, my girl ; don’t throw away the power for 
good you have over me !” 

“Oh, I decline to be responsible for you. You’ve made my life 
a burden to me, more or less, for the last six months, and I won’t be 
made to bear the weight of your soul as well as your heart.” 

Mary notes with pleasure how he winces under her lash. She 


61 


hardly knows herself ; is amazed at her own delight in hurting an- 
other’s feelings. Is it the after-sting of past, wearing jealousies and 
tiresome exactions that gives her this new taste ? She seizes upon the 
excuse with avidity, yet it is more probably exasperation at Ezekiel’s 
present kindness that moves her. ller duplicity pricks her con- 
science now that he shows his better side; his humble devotion 
stands in the way of the comforting self-justification she desires. 

“ Let us change the subject,” says Ezekiel, mastering his fiery tem- 
per with difficulty, and thrusting his shaking hands into his pockets; 
“ let us go back to the music. Don’t you think I’ve improved late- 
ly ? Lord knows I’ve worked at it like a slave !” 

“Just so. You have improved because you have worked at it 
like a slave, not on account of any talent.” 

“ But I played well this afternoon ? You said so yourself.” 

“Yes, well for you, Ezekiel ; but, unfortunately, you have what I 
may call a fatal ear, which is far worse than none at all. You keep 
true for a time, then play, perhaps, a quarter of a note flat, and half 
kill the listener. If a string runs down, you’re not aware of it; you 
rasp the ear just as you often rasp one’s feelings — from sheer in- 
ability to — ” 

“ That’s enough. See there — that thing ’ll never sound a false 
note again !” Seizing his violin by the neck, he has brought it 
furiously down upon a gate-post, smashing it to fragments. 

“ Come, that is indeed a proof of my power, and a welcome one,” 
she cried, with a mocking laugh. 

“ What has come to you, Mary? You never used to And pleasure 
in jeering at me !” 

“ Because your teaching has taken some time to soak in. But 
now I am equal to the task of wounding anybody.” 

A kind of despair now fell upon Ezekiel. With a sickening pain 
it dawned upon him that his reform had come too late ; that Mary’s 
heart had really slipped from his grasp. The fear was not new, 
thouo’h hitherto his stubborn egoism had always been equal to the 
task of casting it aside. 

“Mary,” he muttered with dry lips, “are you turning from me?” 

The yearning humility of this man, who was never humble to any 
one, touched the girl in spite of herself. Her mocking laugh ceased 
abruptly, her eyes began to All. 

“ Up till lately you’ve been so hard and jealous and domineering 
that now I don’t know how — ” 

“ How to take me ? God forgive me !” cried the passionate man ; 


62 


“ I’ve deserved this. I’ve done my best to earn your hatred. I can 
make no exQiise — can only throw myself upon your mercy.” 

They were standing now at an elbow of the canal, some distance 
below the farm, where the water deepened suddenly, creeping slug- 
gishly along, reed-fringed, and canopied by heavy alders. Close to 
them was an old stone bridge, moss-grown, half buried in ivy. 

“See, Mary” — he led her onto the bridge by the hand — “ here’s 
the spot where you first put this little hand into mine. ’Tis a 
sacred spot to me. I’ve never glanced at another woman since then, 
dear. Conceited fool though I be, I’ve always loved you. Put that 
down as a makeweight to my other faults — nay, nay, don’t balance 
up my failin’s at all, sweetheart, but just bear with me a little 
longer. Give me one month to win you back in ; for that time I 
won’t so much as speak of love to ’ee; I’ll be just a humble servant 
waiting on your pleasure.” 

“ Ezekiel, I’d rather not — be engaged any more.” 

“You won’t give me even that chance?” lie leaned upon the 
bridge parapet as though oppressed by physical weakness. “ Is 
there — some one else, Mary ?” 

“ You’ve no riglit to ask!” cried she, with flaming cheeks. 

“ No right — to — ask ? and you — my — betrothed wife ?” 

“ I wish to be so no longer ; I entreat you to release me. Oh, I 
want to be ixQQ—free ; I can hardly breathe under this miserable 
weight 1” • 

“ Mary, is it that — that Secretan ?” 

There was a quick flutter of surprise in Mary’s face. She moved 
away from the bridge, thinking hard, her eyes on the grass. Cir- 
cumstances had suddenly, without a moment’s warning, placed a 
peculiar temptation in her path. She perceived at once what had 
given this drift to Ezekiel’s jealousy. She had always admired the 
stately Simon, both as being a fine, handsome man, and as one 
whose praises were especially obnoxious to Ezekiel. Moreover, Si- 
mon had frequently been at the farm lately to see her father, who, 
upon retiring from business and the Chillington world, had revived 
an ancient taste for reading, with a special leaning in the direction 
of mild science. He devoured with avidity all works on popular 
astronomy ; and good-natured Simon would often take the Holla- 
comb route into the town, in order to provide Mr. Pcthick with a 
new book, or exchange a few shouting remarks on the last one read. 
More than once Ezekiel had seen His Mightiness, as his jealousy was 
wont to name Simon, ride into the small farm-yard ; and Mary was 


63 


always careful to greet Mr. Secretan with particular effusion when 
Ezekiel happened to be anywhere about. 

In this way the seed had been sown quite simply and naturally, 
and now was Mary’s opportunity for rooting up the young plant by 
a single honest word. A month ago she would have done so with- 
out a moment’s hesitation, but now she wavered, weighing pros and 
cons. The honest course was no longer a first instinct ; the poison 
of duplicity had begun to work in her. Again, just as Terence and 
she had been so lately, she was at the meeting of two ways, and 
without a suspicion that much hung upon her decision. People are 
constantly thus in a position to cai’ve out their own destiny ; circum- 
stances, which seem to move in a resistless tide, are constantly paus- 
ing, as it were, to give human weakness a chance; so that most 
tragedies, upon looking back, are seen to have been led up to by a 
whole vista, not so much of accidents as of missed opportunities. 
And these mile-stones on the road to disaster have the curious 
property of becoming bigger and clearer the farther we get from 
them. 

To let an honorable man such as Simon Secretan be seriously sus- 
pected would a few weeks back have been low conduct in Mary’s 
eyes. Even now she shrank from the trickery ; yet — yet this defi- 
nite despatch of Suspicion upon a false scent would be highly con- 
venient. She had a real dread of Ezekiel ; she feared him for 
Terence’s sake, more and more as Terence grew more dear. Now, 
with Ezekiel safely embarked upon a false scent, she and Terence 
could meet with comparative safety, and — and very soon — as soon 
as ever she was free of her present lover — she would become bound 
to Terence; he would acknowledge her as his betrothed wife. 
Ezekiel would do nothing then ; she did him the justice to believe 
that he would never move a finger to bar her happiness, but until 
then ho was not to be trusted. After all, it seemed safer, wiser, 
almost more right, to let him continue in his mistake. 

Mary felt something like a return of sympathy towards Ezekiel 
when she rejoined him on the bridge. There was no visible self- 
pity about him, and his stoicism always provoked her respect. No 
one ever knew this man cry out when he was hurt ; his weak health 
— probably especially irksome to a man of such vigorous spirit — 
was never hinted at by himself. If he looked for patient endurance 
from other people, his precepts were certainly well backed by ex- 
ample. Mary laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off 
roughly, asking again : 


64 


Vis it really Mr. Secretan, though you’re always laughin’ at my 
jealousy o’ he?” 

She turned aside without speaking — lied without opening her lips. 

Ezekiel laughed mockingly, without looking up from the water. 
He was in reality relieved by her confession, since a rival in his 
own class must needs have been far more dangerous. She could 
have nothing more than a passing fancy for one so much above her. 

“How can you be such a fool, Mary?” — his voice spoke of re- 
turning hope. “ Surely you ha’n’t believed the absurd rumor that 
his engagement is shaky — that Dr. Clancy has been cutting him out 
up at Moor Gates?” 

“The flush called up by her falsehood ebbed suddenly from 
Mary’s cheek. 

“ Who told you that ?” she asked, breathlessly. 

“Pshaw! Some long-eared fool'or other — Cbillington breeds 
plenty of ’em. Dr. Clancy’s a favorite up there, as everywhere 
else ; and our long-ears build a two-storied scandal on that little 
circumstance. You don’t know the doctor, by-the-bye, do you?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, I do ; and he’s the last man in the world to go sneaking 
after other people’s belongings. A decent, modest fellow enough, 
is Clancy, rather like a woman to look at, but well enough for a 
doctor. I shall probably recommend him to my friends, so long as 
he don’t grow uppish. However, he has nothing to do with uSy 
Mary, and I must now tell you what I propose to do. I’m willing 
to admit that I’ve rather driven you into foolishness lately, but then 
you have my promise of amendment. I w^on’t set you free yet; 
you remain bound to me for one week more ; then, not till then, you 
shall cut me adrift. I wouldn’t keep you unwillin’, my girl, but I 
won’t have you leaving me for a mere whim neither. And whether 
bound to me or not, be very sure that I shall keep a watchful eye 
on you. If that Secretan casts a single glance your way that lie 
shouldn’t, let him look to himself ; but I don’t suspect him seriously 
— at least; not yet. And now we’ll get along back to the farm. 
Don’t be afear’d that I shall make love to you. I would leave you 
here now this minute, but I don’t care to have you wandering about 
, these solitary paths alone.” 


CHAPTER IX 


Terence Clancy had for the first time in his life spent the night 
under a roof that was his very own. He had been called by his own 
servant, bounded lightly down his own stairs, breakfasted off his 
own plates of quaint old china, looking out upon the smooth lawn 
and old-fashioned flower-beds of his own garden. The fresh, keen 
joy of possession made his eyes sparkle; his heart swelled as he 
stood under his creeper-clad veranda, looking down over the little 
town, peaceful, sunlit, and with the bright ribbon of Chilling Water 
flashing here and there between the intercepting gray walls, and 
foaming through the breadth of emerald beyond. But yesterday he 
had been a struggling seeker after daily bread — and now ! Why, 
now he owned one of the best houses in Chillington, with a hack 
and a hunter in its stables — for he found to his joy that he would 
be expected to hunt one day a week during the season. Dr. Rose 
having firmly established that desirable custom — and, in short, every- 
thing he had ever hoped for. The practice was the best in these 
parts; he would need an assistant as soon as he settled down, and 
proposed to engage Jack Syme, thus setting the old fellow on his 
legs at a stroke. It all seemed like magic ; Simon’s generosity had 
given him a new lease of life, converted the dim world into a joyous 
playground. 

Nor had Terence any intention of finally accepting all this as a 
gift; in the course of a few years he would easily save enough to 
repay old Simon every penny. For from this day forth he was go- 
ing to be a steady, careful, safe, hard-working man ; all his little 
weaknesses were to be thrown aside. Already he could reflect with 
encouragement upon one piece of prudence safely accomplished — he 
had cut himself adrift from pretty Mary Pethick. Business had pre- 
vented his keeping the appointment made by Black Pool a short 
time since, and his new-born sobriety would prevent his making 
another. It would, after all, be absurd to hamper himself with a 
wife while upon the very threshold of his career ; nor would his old 
weakness for feminine sympathy trouble him, now that he had work 
into which he could throw himself with heart and hope. 

5 


66 


All the business connected with the house and garden had been 
accomplished, and to-night Simon was to dine with him; after 
which they were to adjourn together to a solicitor’s office, with a 
view to completing also the deed of assignment of Dr. Rose’s j)rac- 
tice. 

Emerging presently from his reflections under the veranda, Ter- 
ence hurried into his little study and wrote off a jubilant letter to 
his family in Ireland, requesting that two out of the six younger 
brothers should at once be sent over to be brought up and educated 
at his expense. The comfort of thus giving a helping hand to his 
people, whom he had rather forgotten during the last year or two, 
elated him still further. He strode out again into the sunlight, and 
glanced along the road which dipped steeply into the town. 

Just rising the hill Terence saw a cavalcade, which sent his heart 
into his mouth. He had not been up to Moor Gates for some time, 
had resolutely refused the invitations brought by Simon, and now, 
as though to reward his self-denial. Moor Gates was coming to him. 
It was the culminating moment of the morning when he caught 
sight of the cavalcade, which comprised Simon Secretan — easily 
recognizable by his tall figure and the big iron-gray he rode — and 
three ladies ; to wit, Mrs. French-Chichester, Miss Tredethlyn, and, 
yes — Miss Nell. 

Simon trotted on ahead of his convoy, rode in through the front 
gate and round the little gravel sweep, and was greeted by Clancy 
from the steps. 

“ Terence, I’ve news for you — I hear that the peal are running 
up the Culmer in shoals. You must get out your fourteen-footer 
and mount instanter. I’ve been wanting something of this sort, just 
to celebrate the commencement of your reign at the White House. 
You can’t begin work to-day; every one knows you’re not half set- 
tled down yet. As there’s sport in question, I ought to have left 
the ladies at home, but they would come, and have promised faith- 
fully not to interfere with us — in fact, to let us alone and look after 
the lunch. Probably Rush will join us too, for I’ve sent him a 
message. Come, don’t hesitate, old fellow; tell them to saddle 
‘ Rosalind ’ at once, while you get out the tackle.” 

Terence’s heart gave a great leap. A long day in the Culmer Vale 
with the Tredethlyns? The prospect made him dizzy. He was not 
allowed to avoid them. Fate positively threw them across his path. 
Could he refuse ? Impossible — he could not throw away this last 
perfect holiday. To-raorrow he would be in harness, and this would 


67 


be his very last scamper; and he was not made of cast-iron ; and — 
and at this point he vanished in-doors. 

A quarter of an hour later they were all cantering through the 
Hollacomb woods along a nnoss- grown bridle-path. Terence rode 
in front with Mrs. French-Chichester and Nell, by whose side he 
had never ridden before. Tlie sunbeams were dancing across the 
glades, streaming through crisp foliage of dwarf oaks; the rush of 
the hidden Chilling was filling their ears with merry music; the 
summer breeze was playing with Nell’s dark haii\ 

Nell had been out of sorts and depressed lately, but to-day a 
change had set in and her spirits were radiant; while as for Mrs. 
French-Chichester, she was never one to refuse the challenge of 
bright weather and genial company. Moreover, she had good rea- 
son to be satisfied with things in general this morning, for was not 
Simon, with the delightful fatuity which always distinguished him 
in matters which concerned his own interests, playing into her hand, 
thrusting .Nell into the very charmed circle that had been prepared 
by herself ? 

Nor did Terence fail to note the widow’s sly satisfaction. He was 
far too clear-sighted not to be aware that she had been working to 
a certain end lately ; he could always feel her hand at his back, as 
it were, thrusting him gently towards Nell. The drift of her de- 
sire was patent to him, but her motives puzzled him altogether. He 
rightly conceived that she would not be taking all this pains for the 
mere gratification of an old grudge against Simon, but what further 
motive could she have? This problem was beyond him at present, 
but he meant to work out a solution ere long. 

Meanwhile she poured forth such a stream of anecdote and banter 
that her auditors only recovered from one fit of laughter in time to 
fall headlong into another. Most of her tales were about Simon 
and his fads ; for in the art of administering a full dose of dispar- 
agement, disguised in a froth of chaff and raillery, she had few equals, 
and this opportunity was not be to thrown away. She had the light 
quick touch which makes comedy out of anything, and pricks a 
character so deftly that no wound shows. She seemed to be prais- 
ing Simon while she was really drawing blood from him, and the 
quiet woodlands rang with the merriment of as cheery a party of 
three as had ever cantered across the velvet shadows of Hollacomh. 

Miss Tredethlyn and Simon were in a far less genial frame of 
mind. Kate had chosen to fall back some distance behind the oth- 
ers. There was an atmosphere of coming storm about her, which 


68 


Simon might have perceived by her smart way of laying her whip 
to her horse, and by the drawing together of her dark brows ; but 
he was dreaming as usual, pondering with satisfaction over the hope- 
ful prospects of his friend Terence. 

“ Simon — ” began his companion in her most peremptory tone, 
checking her chafing horse as they first turned into the woods. 

“ He’s bound to succeed,” muttered Simon, “ for once in a way 
one’s efforts to give a helping hand will not have fallen flat.” 

“You are speaking of Mr. Clancy, of course?” 

“Yes; I was thinking — ” 

“ Simon, I do wish you would observe more and think less !” 

Now, Simon had a combative side as well as Kate ; smart skir- 
mishing was not unknown between them, and, the one being fond 
of disparaging Clancy, while the other was easily heated in a friend’s 
cause, they now both prepared for the fray. 

“ I don’t much believe in this popular hero of yours.” 

“Substitute ‘appreciate’ for ‘believe,’ Kate. You’re too hard 
and cynical in your estimate of people, if you’ll allow me to say so.” 

“ You’re too blindly good-natured and idealistic in your estima- 
tion of them, if you’ll allow me to say so.” 

“ I’m perfectly aware that you don’t perceive Terence’s good qual- 
ities.” 

“And you?” cried Kate, with sudden passion. “You perceive 
nothing that goes on around you ; you go maundering on, lost in 
some mathematical problem — or philanthropic one, about equally 
useless — and never see the dangers that beset those who are' dear to 
you ! Oh, I know nothing in the world so exasperating as your be- 
sotted — There, I can’t speak of it in polite language. And I can 
do nothing with her ; it would be a kind of sacrilege to take Nell 
to task about it. A pretty pair of innocents you are — and how bit- 
terly exasperating I And you !” 

“What on earth has Nell to do with Terence’s good qualities?” 

“ Nothing — nothing in the world. Nell’s an angel ; not in the 
least mortal ; without the flesh and blood of ordinary people ; and 
we’re all Arcadian shepherds and shepherdesses together.” 

“ I don’t know what mare’s-nest you’ve discovered, Kate ; I don’t 
in the least understand your drift.” 

“ I know, I know. For mercy’s sake, let us talk about crooks, or 
sheepcots, or something you do understand !” 

“ However,” Simon continued, with a slow-spreading flush upon 
bis large, handsome features, “ since candor closely bordering upon 


69 


rudeness is the order of the day, I don’t mind favoring you with a 
home-truth or two. I should like to know, for one thing, why you 
always think fit to snub and mortify my friend Julius Rush, one of 
the best fellows going?” 

A rival of the perfect Terence Clancy — another immaculate, 
dear friend,” mocked Kate ; “ and so well born, too !” 

I tell you frankly that I- consider this insistence upon the acci- 
dent of a man s birth — a man of culture and a thorough gentleman, 
moreover — downright vulgar.” 

What business has a tailor s son with culture ? V^eneer won’t 
make a gentleman.” 

“A most abominable sentiment! You would measure a man’s 
worth by — ” 

“ I wouldn’t measure any one. The mere sight of a yard wand 
is hateful to me.” 

So the foolish pair wrangled on, and, thanks to a little infirmity 
of temper on both sides, this effort of Kate’s to hoist a needed dan- 
ger signal proved entirely abortive. 

“You’re little better than a Honey wood, Simon, and some day 
your good-nature will land you in the mire.” This was Kate’s part- 
ing shot. She delivered it with an angry nod and a resentful glance 
at her companion, then lashed her mare into a gallop and shot away 
from him. 

But neither Simon nor his tall gray were to be left in the lurch 
thus, and the argument ended in a neck-and-neck race along the 
glade. 

“You’ve been wrangling as usual, you two!” cried Mrs. French- 
Chichester, as the combative pair drew rein. “ Nell, my dear, you 
must take charge of Simon while I endeavor to soothe your sister. 
Keep the fractious couple apart we must, by hook or by crook. 
Listen, Kate, I have cheering news for you, to the effect that Cap- 
tain Rush is to join us presently, and will probably bring his father 
the tail — ahem ! — forgive the pain I was on the point of causing you 
— I should have said the ex-artist-in-cloth-to-the-nobility-and-gentry- 
of-the-West-End ; lengthiness being the soul of delicacy, as brevity 
of wit. The ex-artist is a connoisseur, Kate ; he will appreciate the 
really excellent build of your habit and Nell’s. I must say you both 
look charming, and your charms will not be wasted this time. I 
always think there’s a close kinship between your tailor and your 
sculptor, and feel as much moved to pose before the former as the 
latter.” 


70 


Simon, whose weakness was to take things too much to heart, 
was deeply offended by these remarks — just as the speaker intended. 
Captain Rush was a very old friend of his. They had been at Cam- 
bridge together, and their mutual liking had been growing ever 
since. Rush was a man to be trusted, one he could turn to in a dif- 
ficulty ; for Terence, the newer friend, his affection was of a more 
protecting, sentimental order. Kate had been disparaging both with 
equal ardor, and now Cousin Kathleen had given a neat finishing 
stroke to Simon’s irritation. 

Nell dreaded an outburst on Simon’s part — for he was a hard Hit- 
ter when roused, and utterly reckless as to whom he offended ; but, 
perceiving the coming storm in time, she managed to draw him away 
before he had time to commit himself. As she rode forward with 
him out of ear-shot of the others the cousin smiled maliciously, mut- 
tering to herself, “I hope she’ll appreciate the difference between 
this great sulky bear and my pretty boy Terence !” 

“ What a peace-maker our charming Nell is !” she exclaimed aloud, 
“ and well she may be, Kate, for truly my Lord Simon wants a deal 
of management. Really, Mr. Clancy, I’m surprised that you can 
contrive to retain the friendship of this good old hot-headed cougin 
of mine.” 

“ So am I,” acquiesced Kate, in a dry tone, which sounded un- 
pleasantly to Terence. Miss Tredethlyn seemed to be growing sus- 
picious. 

Mrs. French-Chichester also made a mental jotting as to Kate’s 
hostile attitude, but was not the least disconcerted thereat. The 
presence of an opponent always gave additional zest to her schemes ; 
not so much on account of any leaning towards a fair fight, as from 
the keen pleasure she took in out-manoeuvring and overreaching an- 
other woman. Yet she looked upon Kate as hardly worthy of her 
steel ; what chance had this honest, hot-tempered, downright creat- 
ure against so shrewd a pair as Terence and herself ? 

The present mild skirmish, for Kate was already aiming spiteful 
shafts at Terence, was a fair sample of the great battle to come. 
How different was Clancy’s delicate rapier-play to Simon’s clumsy 
hitting and slashing ! He pretended a little heat at first, but soon 
began cunningly to laugh with Kate at himself; to blunt all her 
shafts before they were fairly sped ; to guide her back to good tem- 
per by a touch here and a pull there, until her mirth took a genuine 
ring, and the only sort of reproach for which she had a mind was 
that of self. 


n 


“Admirable!” commented the widow; “it is a real pleasure to 
come across a man with a saving touch of woman’s wit about him.” 

And so they rode along, emerging presently onto the broad, 
breezy moor, and in due time attaining their destination — a solitary 
farm perched upon the brink of the Culmer Vale. Here they left 
their horses; and the two men, having mounted their rods and 
jumped hastily into their wading-gear, were soon striding down a 
steep path to the river, their brains filled with the angler’s glorious 
lunacy to the exclusion of all else — past, present, or to come. 


CHAPTER X 


The anglers found the water rather thick for the fly after late 
heavy rains, but the river was fining down rapidly, and by mid-day 
they had achieved just such moderate sport as serves to whet a fisher- 
man’s appetite. The luncheon-place had been chosen to suit the 
men’s convenience; they would have no searching after romantic 
dells, wide prospects, or such-like irrelevances, but just had the ham- 
pers laid among the brake-fern, where the oak coppice came steeply 
down to hang over the great bowlders of the river, and left the ladies 
to make the most of the situation. They professed, indeed, to have 
no time for luncheon ; Simon refused even to sit down, but stood 
munching hastily, watching the water, and allowing the prattle of 
the ladies to float past him. Meanwhile he received their rebukes 
and chaff with the large good-nature which distinguished him in all 
matters outside his particular fads. 

“ The special charm of all picnics,” Mrs. French-Chichester observed, 
“ lies in their atmosphere of reality : masks are laid aside, each sex 
shows in its true colors, and many hidden virtues come to light. There’s 
the noble unselfishness of men, now — who would suspect its exist- 
ence under more conventional circumstances? In drawing-rooms 
decency compels them to talk to us and pretend a little pleasure in our 
society, and we take it all as a matter of course. But out here they 
are free and untrammelled as the noble savage ; here we are truly 
grateful for a single remark, knowing it to be purely voluntary, 
since, hampers once unpacked, their duty is over. Yes, if they 
speak, it must be from sheer pleasure ; think of that, my dears, and 
be ready with your gratitude, for Simon may yet open his lips at 
any moment almost !” 

“ A lady’s sarcasm,” said Simon, calmly perusing his fly-book, 
“is like some of my flies — very bright and natty, but not a bit 
killing. Terence, old boy, if Rush doesn’t turn up soon T shall make 
a start up-stream.” 

In a few minutes, however. Captain Rush did put in an appear- 
ance, scrambling down through the oak coppice, while carefully 
supporting his father on his arm. 


“ Enter the tailor !” muttered Mrs. French-Chichester. “ Sbalce 
out your creases, Kate ; Fm beautifully posed already.” 

Kate’s eyes looked gloomy ; the sight of Mr. Clancy and her 
sister, seated side by side, seemed to give her little satisfaction. 

“ They make a pretty pair, too,” laughed the widow to herself, 

“ but Kate has no sense of the picturesque !” 

Old Squire Rush, as he was called, came forward timidly in his 
son’s wake. He was a very gentle, retiring old man, with a stoop- 
ing figure, and a little gray beard that seemed somehow to epito- 
mize his personality — being thin, weak, straggling, and in need of 
constant caressing with his hand. He was a man who had borne 
his wealth so meekly that the world, for all its deep scorn of trade, 
had been content to punish him gently, even charitably to admit 
that twenty years of good country air and abstention from the shop 
had gone far towards eradicating the trade -taint in his blood. 
Ladies with marriageable daughters wmuld nearly always lean to 
this kindly view, for, next to Sir Hamo Secretan’s only son. Cap- 
tain Rush was considered about the best parti in the neighborhood. 

In fact, most mothers would have preferred Bickington, with the 
Dragoon Guardsman, to Monks Damerel, saddled as it was with 
eccentric Simon and all his whimseys. The old squire, moreover, 
would be charmingly manageable. He led a harmless, pottering 
life at Bickington, having his greenhouses for daily amusement, the 
anticipation of his son Julius’s next visit for daily solace and com- • 
fort. Julius was the sun and centre of his existence. He had, it is 
true, a daughter some two years younger, but, having married a 
personage of great distinction, she found it difficult to give much 
attention to the ex-tailor, her father. Julius, however, was all- 
sufficing to the old squire, who considered him the best son, the 
cleverest man, and the finest gentleman in the three kingdoms. 
With Julius to back him, he would face even his own servants, upon 
whose attitude and conduct in general Captain Rush’s home-coming 
had always a most beneficial effect. 

While Julius was away soldiering, however — that is to say, dur- 
ing the greater part of the year — these servants of his took care 
that the old man should know his place, and keep to it. For the 
art of giving pain to inferior people is not confined to the upper 
classes ; and the Squire of Bickington — whose long experience in 
this relation surely entitled him to form a definite opinion — at heart 
considered his butler, Mr. John Children, the hardest and most 
merciless of all his critics. 


74 


Never was conventional poor govern ess more systematically crushed 
by hard employer than was this old gentleman by the servants whom 
he only kept up for his son’s sake. Indeed, upon one occasion the 
memory of his wrongs stirred up the gentle old squire almost to the 
point of rebuking a fellow-man. For he chanced one afternoon to 
travel back from Lyrnport in company with a worthy Socialist of 
the neighborhood, who entertained him with a long harangue 
against the cruelties of domestic servitude. Mr. Rush listened 
patiently, but with growing warmth. When they reached Chilling- 
ton and parted, he raised his hat somewhat shakily, and murmured 
in what he felt to be quite a savage way — 

“ Sir, I’ve heard you with interest ; but if you was to come and 
spend a week with me in my home I think you’d learn a thing or 
two as you don’t know at present. Excuse my plain speaking, but 
— but I don’t mean anythink unkind. Good-evening, sir.” 

After this he got into his carriage, feeling very warm, and per- 
haps a little proud of his courage, though compunction for his 
churlishness set in strongly some ten minutes afterwards. 

. But there was one person who gave Mr. Rush more pangs and 
woes even than McTavish, his head-gardener, or Children, his butler, 
and this was Miss Tredethlyn ; to please whom, as being the lady of 
his son’s choice, was at once a sacred duty and a task beyond the 
utmost stretch of his powers. He was consumed by a never- 
• satisfied yearning to ingratiate himself with Kate : meek with other 
people, he -was abjectly humble with her, and failed in his end 
accordingly. No trouble taken in his son’s interest was too great ; 
he would read fashionable newspapers in order to brace himself up 
to Kate’s level, wade through magazines and novels without end, so 
as to be better equipped for pleasing her. 

Miss Tredethlyn, in her present ruffled mood, received the father 
and son with as much ungraciousness as could well be compassed at 
short notice. Poor Mr. Rush found all his little proffered topics, 
conned over so anxiously during the long moorland drive, rejected 
curtly. His simple face became filled with doubt and perplexity ; 
noting which, a grimness came over his son Julius. 

Nor did the latter escape Kate’s criticism. She began with his 
appearance. To her scrutinizing eye he was all wrong, from crown 
of deer-stalker hat to sole of fishing brogues. He was too smart, 
too well-dressed ; there was too much of Hounslow gloss about him 
to suit present surroundings. “ He daren’t drop the dragoon for a 
moment lest the tailor should peep out,” commented Kate the 


fastidious. Had he put on a shabby coat she would have blamed 
his affectation. 

While his father continued to flutter anxiously about Miss 
Tredethlyn, fetching and carrying for her like a little dog, Captain 
Rusli made quiet cynical remarks to Mrs. French-Chichester. He 
was not an emotional man, nor by any means given to carrying his 
feelings on his sleeve, but he was mentally scoring down black marks 
against the woman he admired. If ever he conquered Kate Tredeth- 
lyn, he vowed solemnly she should go under the Caudine Forks. 

Nell was ashamed of her sister. She exerted herself to draw off 
Squire Rush — who struggled feebly between duty towards Kate and 
inclination towards herself — and was kind to the old man. Seeing 
that Kate was in her worst mood, she walked him off along the 
river-bank, plucked rare ferns for him, and charmed his simple old 
heart with her caressing ways. “Ah, if that terrible sister were 
but like her !” muttered the old squire with a sigh. 

Kate, however, was not the only person who betrayed annoyance 
at the advent of these people, for Terence, hating to lose sight of 
Nell for a moment to-day, felt jealous even of the old man. Simon 
had started up-stream after greeting the new arrivals, and was safely 
got rid of for a space — only to leave Nell in the hands "of this pot- 
tering old bore. 

Taking up his rod and basket, Terence presently prepared for a 
start, while Kate and Captain Rush appeared to be watching him 
suspiciously. Perfectly aware of their espionage, and inwardly 
fuming thereat, he headed down-stream, as if with the intention of 
following Nell and the old man ; then, before he had gone many 
yards, stepped into a shallow and waded outward into the full 
sweep of the river. Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the rod began 
to sway rhythmically and the fisherman warmed to his work. She 
cast a glance at the soldier, but, without even looking at her, he also 
took up his rod and departed. 

“ Now, isn’t your rudeness justly punished, my dear ?” asked Mrs. 
French-Chichester, mournfully. “ Here we are left stranded, you 
see ! Nothing left us now but feminine chatter and the contem- 
plation of empty bottles. Hah ! what was that?” 

There was a loud splash about fifty yards down-stream, followed 
by a muttered “Hurroo!” from Clancy. A great silver fish, much 
too heavy for a peal, had leaped clean out of the water and fallen 
back. The two ladies scrambled over the rocks in hot haste, for 
salmon were few and far between on the Cnlmer. 


76 


“ Keep down, for mercy’s sate,” cried the fisherman, or you’ll 
scare his life out !” 

Then he looked anxiously up and down the water. Above him 
all was plain sailing, with one large pool opening into another, but 
below was a boiling rapid studded with jagged rocks, down which 
it would be difficult enough to follow a hooked fish. . 

“ I’ll try him with a big Jock Scott,” he whispered to the ladies, 
who were crouching behind a bowlder ; “ no chance of killing a 
twenty-pounder like that on a small hook, and with all this rough 
water about.” 

He then proceeded to cast with the utmost wariness, lengthening 
his line out until the fly swirled right over the spot where the big 
fish lay. It was a great moment for a man who had killed many 
trout, but never a salmon ; every nerve quivered as his bright-hued 
lure swept round. But no boil came, no glorious jar to the tense 
nerves — the big fish refused to stir. He reeled up with a shaking 
hand and waded cautiously ashore. 

“I must give him a rest,” he muttered, “then try him with a 
smaller fly.” 

lie lighted his pipe, and spread out his flies on a flat rock. Kate, 
quite familiar with the flies most favored in these parts, discussed 
them with him. They talked together most amicably ; for the im- 
mediate prospect of “ killing something,” or seeing it killed, will 
soothe even English spleen. 

After a pause, the angler waded in once more to try a small dark 
fly of Kate’s recommendation. 

Again the rhythmic sway of the tapering greenheart ; again the 
lengthening process. He was casting a long line, and was too 
nervous to do his best, but the water was broken enough to cover 
bungles ; the fly came over the right spot at last, and this time 
there was a boiling heave that sent his heart into his mouth. 
Should he strike ? Before he could settle the question the reel w^as 
screaming, the fish rushing swiftly up-stream. Terence tingled with 
excitement, yet the joy of the moment was laced with deep anxiety. 
The grand fish leaped thrice into the air. Horrible thought — was 
he off ? No, another fine rush ; then perfect stillness — a dead sulk. 
The angler had time to wipe his dripping forehead. 

At this period of the struggle Nell joined the other ladies, having 
left Squire Rush to accompany his son and witness his prowess. 
All three watched breathlessly for the salmon’s next move. 

“ I daren’t leave him to rub the hook out at his leisure,” said 


11 


Terence, ruefully. “ I must put a strain on, though, bedad, my 
heart’s heavy and my tackle light. Miss Tredethlyn, would you 
kindly throw a few stones in just below him, for if he heads down 
I’m done for.” 

The slight rod was bent into a hoop. The suspense had become 
painful, when suddenly the fish moved, sailed off quietly at first, 
then bolted furiously down-stream, Terence splashing through the 
shallows in headlong chase. 

The situation was now a shade too piquant for pure pleasure, for 
the river narrowed and deepened, and a low wall, which here fol- 
lowed the left bank, forced the angler to follow in the water, or not 
at all. 

Already he had plumped into one or two holes, and his wading 
stockings were full of water ; worse still-, his line was nearly run out. 
Should he hold hard, or follow farther? Kate saw that he was 
hesitating, and shouted that he could never keep his legs in the 
next rapid, which was known for a dangerous place. But he must 
needs venture another yard or two. 

The water took him up to the elbows, the heavy waders clogged 
his movements. A few seconds more and the vehement river had 
him in its grip, whirling him furiously along, buffeting him against 
rocks and bowlders at its will. 

Kate followed him down, calling loudly for help. In a moment 
or two she heard, to her inexpressible relief, the crashing of boughs, 
and Simon leaped down from the oak coppice on her left. From a 
high rock some distance up-stream he had perceived Terence to be 
fast in a fish, and had immediately started off, gaff in hand. 

“ But as it is we shall have to gaff the fisherman, Kate,” he gasped, 
panting for breath. “ Keep up your pluck, old boy !” he shouted ; 
“ you’ll be in the pool directly, and I’ll fish you out, sure enough !” 

Fortunately the fierce rapid was a short one. Very soon Terence 
w'as hurled by it into the pool below, disappearing for a moment or 
two under the white water at its head. Simon tore off his coat, 
then waited a moment, watching keenly. He perceived that Ter- 
ence was nearly spent, and, being now about the centre of the wide 
pool, and between its two strong backwaters, might be sucked into 
either. If he were driven under the opposite bank it would be 
better to gain it through the shallow at the pool’s foot and chase 
him along it; if not — But no further weighing of the question 
was needed. Terence drifted into the near backwater, and as Kate 
uttered an exclamation of relief, Simon plunged in. 


78 


For a moment or two Kate’s heart was in her mouth ; she felt 
that if Terence were once more driven under the white water, there 
would be nothing but his dead body to recover. But Simon was 
cool, prompt, and a powerful swimmer. He seized his friend just 
before the hungry back -wash had gripped him fairly, wrestled 
strongly with it for a moment or two, then found himself on a sud- 
den in dead water. The rest was simple ; he quickly touched bot- 
tom, waded a few steps, then took up his burden like a baby and 
tramped calmly through the remaining shallow water. 

Terence was bruised and scared, but had not lost consciousness. 
He was still clutching his rod, and in want of nothing but rest and 
a little brandy. Seeing which, Simon handed his flask to Kate, and 
finding the fish, which had been deeply and firmly hooked, still fast, 
proceeded to play it as though nothing had happened. 

Kate admired his calm way of taking things. She had before 
noticed that anything in the shape of real danger tended to make 
Simon cheerful and happy, though almost any trifle in the way of 
ordinary life, if it happened to cross the vein of his prejudice, would 
serve to perturb and depress him. “ He’s an odd fellow,” thought 
she, “ and I don’t believe Nell understands him even as well as I do.” 

Kate and Mrs. French-Chichester soon succeeded in reviving Ter- 
ence sufiiciently to be able to help him on his feet. He took a 
shaky step or two, but his nerves were still unstrung. 

“Bravo, Terence! Look sharp and pull yourself together, for 
your fish is giving in — and land him you must!” shouted Simon 
from a gravelly point at the lower end of the pool. 

Terence tottered off, his eye brightening. 

“Simon’s a perfect barbarian !” Mrs. French-Chichester muttered 
angrily. 

Kate made no remark, but watched Simon put the rod into his 
friend’s hand, standing ready to support him if necessary, then stoop 
down, gaff the big fish, and lay it gasping on the gravel. 

“ There, that’s your first salmon, old man ; have another pull at 
the brandy -flask and drink his health. That’s all right, and now 
I’m going to hale you off to the farm for a change of clothes.” 

There was a gleam of enthusiasm in Kate’s eyes. 

“ Look at him,” quoth she ; “ strong, capable, cool as a cucumber; 
with a man’s power and a woman’s tenderness — what an odd, fine, 
whimsical old Simon it is !” 

“ He concerned himself a deal more about the fish than about his 
friend,” muttered Simon’s cousin, 


79 


“ By-the-vvay, what have you done with Nell ?” 

Nell came towards them as her sister spoke. She had a curious, 
dazed look, and was deadly pale. When they asked her a question 
she burst into hysterical tears and laughter. 

“What! another candidate for the brandy - flask ?” the widow ex- 
claimed. “Come, child, Simon’s all right; you were scared at see- 
ing him plunge in, no doubt?” 

“ I hope so,” mused Kate, turning aside as though averse to meet- 
ing her sister’s eye, “I hope so with all my heart.” Then she 
looked round again, saying sharply, “No nonsense, Nell. I won’t 
have it. Fancy your pretending to hysterics !” 

“Aha !” thought the widow, “you’ll give your sister a bit of your 
mind to-night, Kate, my dear. You would like to begin now at 
once, wouldn’t you ? But beware, lest that tongue of yours bring 
about your own defeat 1” 

Simon soon strolled down from the farm again, attired in a carter’s 
smock and corduroy trousers, and bearing an immense black kettle. 

They greeted him with shouts of laughter, in which he joined 
with the zest of a school-boy. 

“ Terence is too vain to appear in this get - up,” he explained ; 
“ but I like it. He’ll be here soon, so I hope you’ll have some tea 
ready. There’s lots of dry brake-fern about for firewood ; and I’m 
afraid you two must pick it up, for I have no time, and Kate’s 
proud spirit would revolt from such menial work.” With that, 
Simon took up his rod, and walked thigh -deep into the pool, much 
to the detriment of his corduroys. 

By the time Terence appeared the kettle was boiling among the 
rocks at the head of the pool, while Squire Rush and his son busied 
themselves under Nell’s superintendence. Captain Rush had landed 
two good peal, which the old gentleman proudly displayed to each 
of the ladies in succession, and would hardly allow out of his sight 
for a moment. Simon was still flogging away, blowing clouds of 
tobacco smoke, and wading about with the skirts of his smock 
swaying gracefully in the stream. 

Mr. Clancy was effusively greeted by the ladies. They surrounded 
him with eager hopes, pityings, and kindly upbraidings. How could 
he so endanger his life for the sake of a mere fish ? How rashly he 
had ventured into the rapid ; how gallantly he had clung to his rod ! 
Was he unconscious when Simon first caught him ? 

Terence stood laughing and blushing, and enjoying not a little the 
importance and interest wherewitfi the ducking had invested him. 


80 


While Mrs. French-Chichester poured out sympathy, Nell’s lips were 
silent, but her eyes were eloquent. 

Meanwhile the dragoon regarded this sentimental scene with a 
cynical glance. He felt oddly jealous for his friend, and perhaps a 
little for himself. Why should Clancy be fussed over and caressed 
like this? why, the man was undermining Simon, supplanting him 
with his friends. Even Sir Hamo seemed to care more for this semi- 
stranger than for his own son. “What is Clancy’s game?” lie 
had caught himself asking this question more than once lately, and 
could in no wise answer it to his satisfaction. He felt a vague dis- 
trust of the man, yet had nothing beyond intuitive prejudice to 
found it upon. 

Nell was soon in high spirits again, running over with talk and 
laughter. Rush, the sardonic, found himself obliged to laugh with 
the others, and the sliding Culmer joined its music to the merriment 
of the party. Before they broke up their camp the broad sun had 
gone behind the western moors, and the pool at their feet was giving 
back the delicate rose and opal of a placid evening sky. 

The ride home that evening was an epoch that made a deep mark 
in the memory of both Nell and Terence. His exaltation reached a 
climax none the less poignant from having to be suppressed ; for 
he saw in Nell’s eyes what he had hitherto looked for in vain, what 
he had striven with anxious, patient subtlety to put there, all the 
while keeping rigidly to the fiction of strict loyalty to his friend. 
He had made love to Nell without a spoken word, pacifying his 
flexible conscience with the sophistry that comes so easily to a well- 
meaning, semi-false nature. He was now in a whirl of triumph. 
True, there were still some points of difference to be settled with his 
better self, some jagged fragments of good resolutions rasping him, 
some underlining of shame to his satisfaction ; but for the moment 
these things could be thrust aside, and he could give his joy full rein. 

They were all riding home in a confused group, so that there was 
nothing to alarm Nell, nothing to sting her loyalty into quickened 
life. She felt like one in a dream ; for in giving her an honest, 
pure soul, nature had laid her fatally open to such an attack as 
Terence Clancy’s. Even now she remained unenlightened ; for the 
present she was only aware of some strange uplifting of her nature, 
of an increased joy in the liquid beauty of the sky, in the stealing 
of gray mists up wooded combes, and the large peacefulness of the 
moor — quiet as though soothed to rest by its Maker’s owm voice 
and hand. She could only listen to her thoughts, she had no power 


81 


to analyze them ; it seemed as though her heart had gone out of 
her keeping, and were beating in the broad bosom of nature. 

When they entered the green twilight of the woods Tfcrence fell 
behind with her some little distance. She scarcely heard his words, 
but his voice fell warm upon her heart, his every glance was a caress. 
She had forgotten the others, and Terence, filled with reckless exalta- 
tion, was hardly master of himself. 

Yet it needed but a touch to restore them both to sanity, and 
Simon himself supplied it. 

At a bend in the bridle-path they found him awaiting them, and 
he at once drew Terence aside, whispering eagerly — 

“ Canter on, old fellow, and give me an innings, for I have some- 
thing special to say to Nell.” 

With anger and bitter jealousy Terence shook his friend’s hand 
from his shoulder and rode on, cursing Simon and his own miser- 
able fate, and the sickening conventions of the world. He knew 
well enough what the lover had to say ; no leap so quick and sure 
as that of jealous intuition. 

“ He seems a bit put out,” Simon remarked, simply. “ I hope 
you have not been quarrelling with him, dear ? You must leave 
that to Kate, you know.” 

Nell could not trust herself to speak ; she was shaking like a leaf, 
could hardly retain her seat in the saddle. The truth had come to 
her with the sound of her lover’s voice, the scales had fallen suddenly 
from her eyes. 

Simon, looking shyly away from her into the dusk, and himself 
not a little perturbed by the task before him, noticed nothing. 
When he turned, his honest eyes were bent upon her with a look 
which seemed to immerse her in a hot wave of shame. ‘He had for 
some time been trying to screw up his couragfe to the point of pre- 
ferring a certain request, and had now made up his mind to the 
plunge so suddenly as to take his own breath away. Yet, perhaps, 
few lovers could have asked the old old question in a way better 
calculated to please a woman, had she cared to hear it asked at all. 
Nell would never forget the simple eloquence which so deepened 
her shame. 

“ And how long, my love,” he concluded — “ how long must I wait? 
You care for me a little — it won’t be so very hard to leave your 
home for mine?” 

Silence, not a whisper ; the hushed woods seemed to listen, but 
no sound came. 

6 


82 


Hitherto, when he had spoken of love, it had been in a tongue 
strange to Nell ; spoken passion being a dead thing to a passionless 
listener, she had always been able to answer him calmly, without any 
acute sense of the flatness of her own words ; but now an abler tutor 
than Simon had taught her the meaning of heart -language. No 
commonplace answer would come now ; she was dumb. 

Simon was deeply hurt. A draught of chill air seemed to pass 
into his mind. Nell had been moody and capricious with him at 
times, had taxed his faculty of accusing himself in order to palliate 
her faults; but this wounding silence was a thing to cut deeper. It 
was the flrst sting of the adder which he had been nursing, the flrst 
stroke of the lash his bosom friend had prepared for his back. 

But Simon’s faith was still sound and healthy, not a sickly, pul- 
ing thing to have its life tweaked out by the first pinch of disap- 
pointment. He had none of the facility of disbelief that belongs to 
the animal, Othello type of man ; and in relation to Nell long habit 
had kept his expectation tuned low, making ready deference to her 
feeling a first instinct. Even so, however,* the tone of his voice, 
when he spoke again, fell strangely upon Nell’s ears. 

“I’ve sprung it upon you,” he said. “I’ve been over-hasty, as 
usual. Don’t vex yourself about it to-night ; take a week or two 
for consideration. I would not for worlds harass you about it. 
Come, Nell, let us ride on and join the others.” 


CHAPTER XI 


Simon Secretan and his host were unusually silent over their 
dinner that night. Each exerted himself spasmodically to contrib- 
ute a little hilarity to the evening, but the failure of either was 
about equally conspicuous. Simon was vaguely depressed at Nell’s 
cold reception of his entreaty, though as yet not seriously anxious 
about it. After the first disappointment, the habit of idealizing the 
woman he loved, of regarding her as above and beyond all criticism, 
of finding in himself the fault, if at any time she fell short of his 
expectations, had reasserted itself. 

As regards Nell, his critical faculty had positively suffered atrophy 
from disuse ; he had fallen into that fatal obtuseness which is the 
natural outcome of over-intensity in any passion. As for suspecting 
his friend, of conceiving him capable of treacherous hankerings after 
Nell, his mind was not capable of forming the idea, much less of giv- 
ing it harborage. 

Terence, with his feminine intuitiveness and quick-probing sym- 
pathy, had no diflBculty in reading his visitor’s thoughts. He knew, ^ 
as certainly as though Simon had described it, how Nell had re- 
buffed him ; he knew that Simon was even now making refiections 
upon his own clumsiness and want of tact, that nothing short of 
brutal frankness on the part of some one or other would ever waken 
him to the truth. 

His friend’s blind unsuspicion sat heavily upon Clancy’s heart. 
Had Simon been as other men, Terence felt — the mood of reac- 
tion being now strong upon him — that he could have confessed 
all and bowed to the storm. As it was, he felt half-dazed with con- 
flicting emotions ; at one moment his heart went out to this large- 
natured Quixote who had loaded him with obligations, at the next 
he hated his benefactor. 

The tangled situation in which he found himself was like a cage 
of red-hot iron, scorching him every time he moved. There were 
but two 6xit doors available, two paths leading to restored self-re- 
spect; he must either renounce Nell, now that she was almost won, 
which was quite impossible ; or he must now, this very night, in place 


84 


of completing the deed of assignment, renounce all Simon’s gifts, 
and regain poverty and freedom at a stroke, which was all but im- 
possible. For such wilful destruction of his own prospects would 
be a gross failure of duty to his family, by whom so much had been 
given up for Terence — the promising, the talented, the future lifter- 
up of a whole batch of young brothers and sisters from the mire of 
destitution. For him the urchin-flock had gone half clothed and 
unschooled, for him the mother had pinched and starved, the father 
had foregone the small savings wrung from the miserable bog-lands 
of his holding ; to send him to Rugby and St. Bartholomew’s crab- 
bed maiden aunts had been propitiated, and grumbling uncles dunned 
to the yielding point. 

And now at length Terence was in a position to restore that poor 
hungry home-party to comparative comfort. It needed so little to 
effect this ; they had been bred up in so hard a school that a tenth 
part of the income derivable from this practice would be a little 
stream of wealth to that sordid home in the depths of County Cork. 

Terence’s father was a silent, broken-down sort of man, and per- 
haps by reason of his little speaking, his parting words dwelt the 
longer in his son’s memory : “I know ye won’t forget your mother 
and the little uns if ye ever make a big hit, Terence agrah^ for ’tis 
a good heart ye have. But see that ye walk straight, me son, for 
ye’ve a bit of a weakness for tricksiness ; play fair wid your friends, 
for ye’ll make a crowd of them.” 

Then again, there was Nell herself to consider ; could he desert 
her now after the innocent confession of her eyes and voice ? Could 
he, after making happiness with her betrothed impossible — He 
had to drop one train of thought after another like red-hot irons; 
finding which, he grew reckless, as a weak man much pressed by 
circumstances will always do. Sign his acceptance of Simon’s gift 
he must, were it only for the sake of his family — for the rest, things 
must drift on as they would. His intentions had always been for 
the best ; it was no fault of his that this strange affinity had drawn 
him and sweet Nell together. 

To drown thought, and from sheer desire to warm his heart tow- 
ards the friend whom the baser part of him was trying to regard as 
an enemy, Terence drank a good deal of wine. As the fumes 
mounted, his hopes brightened ; he saw all difficulties smoothed by 
some happy accident ; he saw Nell released from Simon by the lat- 
ter’s own wish, without breach of honor or even propriety, and the 
little romance ending in happy tears and noble speeches all round. 


85 


By the time they rose from the table he had drunk twice as much 
as usual, and his excited feelings made him seem downright intoxi- 
cated. 

Simon noticed this state of things with some disappointment. 
Yet as Terence warmed towards him, once more sentimentalized 
into a state at least colored by old friendship, he blamed his own 
hard judgment. He felt drawn by the very weakness of his friend, 
stirred, as often before, by that protecting kind of affection which 
a strong father has for a feeble son. “ I must look after old Ter- 
ence,” he mused. “ He only needs a little stiffening to be the best 
fellow alive. He shall never go astray for want of a friend, any- 
way.” 

“ I think it is about time to go and meet Dr. Rose, and put the 
finishing touch to the legal business,” he said, aloud, hoping to sober 
Terence and check further hospitality. 

“Then come on, old chap,” cried the other, taking Simon’s arm to 
steady himself. “ Come on, and I’ll sign any damned thing you please. 
You’ve dragged me out of a morass of poverty ; I’m a free man, I 
say, ready to meet my enemies in the gate with a high heart and a 
swelled purse ! I don’t care a damn for any one, old fellow. Simon, 

I love you again ; I’ve been a cursed low mean fellow lately — never 
mind in what way ; ’tis a relief to tell you the bare fact. Will you 
bear with me, old chap, and forgive me? God knows I wouldn’t 
hurt a hair of your head ! And you saved my life to-day, dear old 
lad; I was clean spent when you took me by the collar — couldn’t 
have supported myself another two seconds.” 

“ Come, Terence, you’re talking wildly ; pull yourself together 
or we must put off this business. You are over-excited, and too — ” 

“Too full of liquor, you might say, Simon; yet ’tisn’t that al- 
together, ’tis intoxicated with returning self-respect I am. Ah, you 
don’t know me, old fellow ; I’ve been playing the part of a sneak 
and a cur lately — but never again, never again ! You work upon 
me somehow without being aware of it, and now I’m a man again. 
Shake hands with me, now, and tell me I’m no cur ?” 

He finished with a half-sob, and Simon was lost in wonderment 
at this outburst. Yet Terence’s eager desire to be friendly was plain 
enough, nor was it in Simon’s nature to fail in answering warmth. 
He held out his hand without a word, letting his face speak for 
him ; and they walked off together like brothers, with linked arms, 
to put the finishing touch to Simon’s latest experiment in philan- 
thropy. 


CHAPTER Xll 


About the time Simon and Terence reached the lawyer’s office, 
Kate Tredethlyn was for the first time in her life retiring to rest 
without saying good-night to her sister. There had been coolnesses 
between them, following naturally upon periods of heat, yet never 
until now a quarrel of pith enough to endure over bedtime. Nor 
had they quarrelled openly now. Indeed, Nell seemed too dazed 
and bewildered to be quite aware of her sister’s exasperation. Or- 
dinarily she would have rushed to her father the moment she was off 
her horse, and have poured forth a vivid account of the day’s ad- 
ventures. To-night she was silent as a mouse. 

“What! my vigorous little Nell tired out with a gallop over the 
moor ?” laughed the comfortable parson. He turned to Kate for an 
explanation of the phenomenon, but perceived at once that he would 
get none. Her brow was dark, her eyes sullen ; her mood of a 
stormy type, w'ell calculated to hinder the digestive process of a 
quiet man who has lately dined well, and incline him towards to- 
bacco and the seclusion of his study. 

Mr. Tredethlyn had always been rather afraid of his tall, handsome 
daughter, and was often conscious of a certain boyish elation when 
she was away on a visit, or for a day’s picnicking. To-day, for ex- 
ample, had been full of peace and careless ease. When the girls 
rode off with Simon, their father was free to sit undisturbed among 
his roses, tranquilly reading the Guardian ; after which he had been 
gently busy pasting some photographs of the Chilling Vale into an 
album. Luncheon, again, had to-day been invested with an atmos- 
phere of pleasing bachelor-like repose, and his cook had surpassed 
herself in the matter of mutton cutlets — a weak point with her when 
she chanced to be out of temper. In fact, having no exacting Miss 
Kate to satisfy, she had been able to give the full force of her mind 
to these cutlets, and master’s gratification had been a full return for 
her pains. 

After lunch Mr. Tredethlyn had driven into Chillington, and spent 
a couple of comfortable gossipy hours at the club ; nor could even 
Kate, whose silent criticism he often found so prickly, accuse her 


87 


fatlier of idleness to-day, for had he not voluntarily called upon the 
overworked vicar, and undertaken the post of chairman at an ap- 
proaching parish meeting? Mr. Tredethlyn was a popular man; 
liked, as one who never interfered with his neighbors; respected, as 
one who never did more work than he could help. It was as much 
a pleasure to himself as to his audience when he addressed the good 
folks of the town, for he was a good speaker, and his rich, genial 
voice and sly humor were full of good-living, good-nature, and whole- 
some human kindness. 

He had proposed gaining a little credit with Kate by thus step- 
ping in to relieve Mr. Nelson of a duty ; but it was clear that noth- 
ing could please her to-night, that no recognition of his energy 
would be wrung from her by any means whatever ; in brief, the one 
thing to do was to get out of her way. 

“Better not sit talking with the girls this time,” thought the sly 
parson ; “but — let me see, Nell can stand my strong Havanas better 
than Kate ; suppose I were to thicken the atmosphere of the study 
just up to Nell’s power of endurance, and so secure myself against 
her sister? A well-smoked study is at once an intrenched camp un- 
assailable by woman, and a hospital for the cure of nerves ravaged 
by past skirmishing with her. I shall smoke faster than they can 
eat, for better no Nell than both Kate and Nell.” 

Nell drifted into the intrenched camp presently, still drooping, lan- 
guid, and quite unlike herself. She had been up -stairs to change 
her dress, yet was still in her riding-habit ; her dark eyes had lost 
their sparkle, her ordinary brightness was quenched. But Mr. 
Tredethlyn failed to notice anything, having a full share of the self- 
concentration of his sex ; to gain whose ear one needs not only to 
be very ill, but to proclaim the fact at the top of one’s voice. 

“Come and sit by me, little girl. You don’t mind the smoke? 
Kate could hardly endure this atmosphere, I think — and hope,” he 
added, with an inward chuckle. 

“ No, I don’t mind the smoke, father.” 

“ Well, you’ve had a pleasant day, of course, little Nell ? How 
has our excellent, but too vigorous, Simon been spending his ener- 
gies? Any new philanthropy afoot? I really believe that he and 
the vicar do a deal of harm between them ; the place seems to be 
growing more discontented every day. However, Lord Timon, as 
his cousin calls him, is a fine fellow, dear ; and, some day, I must e’en 
try to live up to my son-in-law. Was Terence Clancy with you this 
afternoon? I must get him to ride over again in a day or two, for 


88 


I’m not as well as I could wish. Dyspepsia, you know, undermines 
every pleasure. I do assure you that I’m so languid as to be unequal 
to the least exertion ; why, the mere drive into the town quite tired 
me — and I made a poor luncheon, too. You young people, with 
never an ache or a care beyond your twopenny sentimental troubles, 
don’t know what a painful process life can be !” 

And so the good-natured, selfish father prosed on, while Nell sat, 
buried deep in an arm-chair, trying hard to listen, but finding every 
word drowned by the noise of her own thoughts. 

Meanwhile, Kate had been crossing swords, or rather tongues, 
with two of the maids ; but with little gain of relief from the proc- 
ess, since one gave her a month’s warning on the spot, and the other 
was only waiting to follow suit as soon as the first flood of hysteria 
should abate. Later on she retired for the night without- attempt- 
ing an attack upon the study, more harassed in mind and temper 
than she had been for a long time. 

It was a hot night, and she felt quite unable to sleep, indeed hard- 
ly made an effort to do so, having quite set her mind upon a visit 
from Nell. She felt that her sister’s present stunned condition could 
not last many hours, that a torpid state so unnatural to Nell must 
needs end in a storm. Kate was eager for the storm ; she had de- 
termined upon strong measures, and the more tempest the better. 

The clock in the passage had struck the hours up to three o’clock, 
and now it was getting close upon four, but Kate never swerved 
from her expectant attitude. Nell would come ; she felt as certain 
of it as that the sun would rise. And sure enough, just before the 
clock struck again, there was a pattering step in the passage, and 
Nell stole into the room. 

“ Are you awake, Kate ?” 

“ Yes, wide awake.” 

Both voices were charged with the vague something that precludes 
any preliminary commonplaces; with both it was a case of silence 
or a plunge. 

Nell sat down, with a heavy sigh, by the window. The stealing 
half-light of the coming dawn fell upon the black shower of her 
hair and the white folds of her long dressing-wrapper. Kate, sitting 
up in bed, awaiting with quickened pulse the coming outburst, felt 
rather than saw what was in her sister’s face. 

“ I believe I am the most miserable woman in the world !” Hard- 
ly had Nell got the words out when she burst into a storm of sobs 
and tears. 


89 


“ I’m glad you’ve come to your senses at last, Nell ; and you may 
cry as hard as you please, for I’m a deal too angry to waste pity on 
you — in fact, I rather want to see you have a bad time than not.” 

“ I don’t want your pity ; I’m too wretched for that to do any 
good, and I hate myself too much to accept pity from any one. Oh, 
Kate, I did think I was honest and true, if nothing else — it is a bit- 
ter thing to find one’s self out to be such a poor creature, so fickle, 
so contemptible, so false. False^ do you hear? I wouldn’t have 
accused myself of that in my humblest mood. I did think I could 
trust myself — that I had the humble virtue of faithfulness. I don’t 
know how this thing has come upon me ; I have felt only dull and 
languid lately, but there has been a slow fever creeping through me, 
and now — ” 

“ Now you’ve found yourself out to be mortal,” said Kate, mood- 
ily, “and so liable to fever. It is not an uncommon discovery.” 

“ Oh, I never knew, I never dreamed,” cried Nell, blushing crim- 
son and hiding her face. “ I never dreamed until to-day that I was 
false; yet, when they were struggling in the water, I don’t believe I 
gave Simon a thought. I have neither honor nor loyalty nor truth. 
Do you hear ?” 

“ I am now certain of what I have often suspected” — Kate spoke 
with knitted brows and a kind of gloomy satisfaction — “ namely, 
that Terence Clancy is no true man. He has meanly and cleverly 
taken advantage of your harassed state with regard to Simon. And 
I suppose a woman is weaker to resist an attack by one man, while 
vainly trying to love another, than under any other conditions. Had 
you broken with Simon, as I wished and advised ; had you been free 
and happy, with the full use of your eyesight, I don’t believe you 
would ever have looked twice at this too -modest, too -kind, too- 
subtle, too-treacherou s — ” 

“You’re utterly unjust to him, Kate. He is perfectly innocent; 
he has not the slightest suspicion of my weakness ; he is simply a 
kind friend. You don’t know him — oh, you don’t know him ; he’s 
the very soul of honor !” 

“ Then honor’s a poorer thing than I’ve been brought up to sup- 
pose. I’ll tell you what I do think about him : he’s a man of excel- 
lent intentions, soft heart, and double nature — the sort of man who 
does better as an instrument for spoiling another’s happiness than 
any downright scoundrel. I say Terence is a good-hearted shuffler, 
a kind of innocent sneak — ” 

“Never dare to mention his name again!” Nell burst forth, white 


90 


with anger. “ Never dare to traduce an honorable man in order 
to cover my weakness. If you mention him again, I leave the 
room !” 

“ I wouldn’t indulge in heroics, Nell ; they don’t come well from 
one who proposes to become Mrs. Clancy, and to commence house- 
keeping on an income furnished by the man she has jilted.” 

Nell, who had been walking to and fro since the first mention of 
Clancy’s name, sank down again with a gasp. 

“Do you think I have sunk so low as that? You hit me hard, 
Kate. You don’t spare me !” 

“ That was a brutal speech of mine. I’m sorry, little Nell.” 

“ Never mind,” said Nell, in a crushed sort of way ; “ I’ve given 
you the right to trample on me, and nothing matters much now.” 

“ You really care for this man? The disease has struck root?” 

“ Care for him ? Had honor permitted I could have been happy 
with him in the meanest cottage. I could — ” 

“There, there!” cried the other, fretfully; “for Heaven’s sake let 
us stop at the cottage ! Why can no one ever talk of love without 
dragging in that wretched Thatched Thing? I’m sick to death of 
it. Drop that mawkish stuff and answer this question — What do you 
intend to do ?” 

“You insult me by asking.” 

“ Then I don’t see how the conversation’s to go on. I mustn’t 
mention this spotless Irishman’s name, and I mustn’t ask you a 
question. It’s hardly worth while keeping you out of bed to talk 
about the weather, is it ?” 

“Don’t you know me well enough to guess my intention, Kate?” 

“ ’Tis something quixotic, my dear, without doubt — something 
rather insane and desperately thorough, if I know you at all. You 
and Simon are lunatics both, or you’d have been comfortably mar- 
ried long ago. Are you going for a governess or a pupil-teacher, 
after first telling Simon that, though you don’t care the fiick of a whip 
for him except as a sister, you’ll gush out with friendship for him as 
long as he lives, and nurse his children when another woman has 
made him happy ? That’s the usual or regulation treatment of the 
case, I believe.” 

“ It’s not the treatment suggested by common decency or recti- 
tude, to my mind.” 

“ Then out with your plan, my dear ; don’t fear to alarm me. The 
most gorgeous scheme coming from you won’t dazzle me. Fling a 
rainbow at me and I sha’n’t wink!” 


91 


“ My plan is simple enough, Kate. I intend to keep my word. 
I’m pledged to Simon, and shall marry him as soon as he pleases.” 

“ And how about the other hero of the piece — the one who is ‘the 
soul of honor,’ etc ?” 

Nell threw back her answer with a flash of eye and an angry 
gesture. 

“ I shall avoid him ; I shall never see him, if I can possibly help 
it. Should he guess my weakness he would know how to assist 
me.” 

“ I see.” 

“ Would that I coifld trust myself as absolutely as I can him !” 

“Just so.” 

“ Kate, Kate, I’m very miserable ; don’t be hard with me. Do tell 
me that you think me capable of doing my duty to poor old Simon, 
and keeping this wretched secret to myself ?” 

“ My dear child, I think you capable of anything, except what is 
commonplace or sensible or mean. But why not adopt some mid- 
dle course ? Let your engagement come to an end, then let us go 
abroad with one of the aunts, and stay there until both aspirants have 
cooled down and forgotten you. The thing’s possible, I do assure 
you. As somebody in Shakespeare says: ‘Men have died from 
time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ ” 

“ Middle course ? In questions of honor there’s no such thing.” 

“ There, there ! you crush me with your aphorisms. I’m not go- 
ing to beat the air any more; I’m not going to try and quench 
a conflagration of sentiment with a penny squirt of common-sense. 
Come in here beside me. Little Nell, and stay till getting -up 
time. We’ll talk no more and quarrel no more. You’ll just go your 
own way in this matter ; I shall sneer a little behind your back now 
and then, and work off the rest of my temper on my father or the 
servants. I hate quarrelling with you, for you always apologize for 
my faults afterwards, and make me feel so abominably mean. Come 
into bed at once, or you’ll catch your death of cold and get laid up; 
and then I shall have to nurse and be kind to you and bottle up my 
wrath, instead of giving you the shaking you deserve.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


Kate and her father breakfasted together next morning, Nell hav- 
ing caug^it a slight chill at the picnic yesterday, as her sister ex- 
plained, and being in bed with a headache in consequence. There 
was an odor of improbability about this statement ; but Kate had no 
inventive skill worth mentioning, and it served her purpose well 
enough, since Mr. Tredethlyn was himself an invalid this morning, 
with mind fully occupied by his own woes. He had exerted him- 
self a good deal in the garden yesterday, and so got over-heated, and 
the subsequent chill had flown to his liver. Whether the extra glass 
or two of Madeira with which he had celebrated his bachelor holi- 
day had increased the chill was a point for private reflection. At 
any rate, the deep gloom of torpid liver was upon him, and break- 
fast a mere empty form. He thrust aside his untasted salmon-peal, 
packed for him with especial care by Nell the moment it left its native 
Culmer yesterday, and sighed the deep sigh of the dyspeptic. 

“ Kate, my dear, I feel wretchedly unwell this morning. I be- 
lieve I shall have to send for that bright fellow Terence Clancy 
again.” 

Her father’s distempers always produced a contemptuous irritation 
in Kate; but the threat to summon Terence was at this juncture a 
positive outrage. 

“ I do wish, father ” — she tried to steady her voice, but the tem- 
per would get into it — “ I do wish you would put yourself into 
the hands of some other doctor. Are you so very unwell this 
morning ?” 

This was a bad stroke. Nothing could have been better calcu- 
lated to arouse his opposition than this simple question ; for even a 
good-natured parson is not to be managed by scoffing at his bodily 
trials. The genial, ruddy face became sullen ; its owneryelapsed into 
silence. 

“ I do not believe he is more skilful than the other doctors ; and 
— and you would really do me a great favor by going back to Doctor 
Rose ?” 

“ He is leaving off practice — as you know perfectly well. I sup- 


93 


pose you would like me to do without medical attendance alto- 
gether ?” 

“ Why not try Mr. Syme? People are beginning to think better 
of him, I hear.” 

No answer. Her father had assumed the dignified silence of in- 
jured innocence. Kate’s indifference to his state of health was a 
grievance of long standing. 

She quickly regretted her want of self-control. It was of real im- 
portance to keep Terence out of the house for a time. Already, as 
she had been duly informed, some of the gossips of Chillington had 
been coupling his name with her sister’s, and the report gave a deep 
stab to her family pride. She had vexed her father now, and must 
give up the topic for an hour or two; but she was resolved to recur 
to it again and again, to fight tooth and nail to keep Nell’s name 
from slander. 

A long silence ensued ; then both were relieved by the appear- 
ance of Mrs. French-Chichester driving rapidly round the sweep in 
her high dog-cart. Kate hastened to the French window to greet 
the welcome visitor. Mr. Tredethlyn’s smile broke out again as the 
widow nodded her cheerful good-mornings. 

Mrs. French-Chichester was in her brightest mood ; she seemed to 
disperse the sullen atmosphere of the room as a breeze the moorland 
fog. 

“ What ! no little Nell ?” she exclaimed as she sat down. “ What 
does this mean ?” 

“ She is in bed with a bad headache.” 

The widow^ smiled at Kate’s crude simplicity, muttering, “ Her 
very voice shows that something is wrong.” 

“ Tut, tut, child !” cried the visitor, arranging her fringe with 
coquettish glances at the looking-glass, in which Kate’s face was also 
reflected. “ Nell with the megrims ? I never heard of such a thing. 

Send up my love, knd tell her she must come down immediately.” 

“ I think she caught a chill yesterday.” 

“Kate, Kate, you can’t do it!” laughed the widow inwardly. 
“Chill and headache, indeed! • I could have thought of something 
better at ten years old !” 

“ These girls don’t know what headache means,” sighed Mr. Tred- 
ethlyn. “ When they come to our age, now — ” 

“ Oh, how dare you, Mr. Tredethlyn !” 

“ I heg your pardon — I meant my age. As for you, I only wish 
they were half as young.” 


94 


“ Thank you ; that’s very pretty. Well, Nell’s headache must be 
cured by to-night, or I shall scold her dreadfully.” 

“ She’ll be well enough if there’s any fun going forward,” laughed 
the large parson, sinking back in an arm-chair. “ These girls are 
full of whims and fancies. Now, I wonder if you could make a guess 
at Kate’s last fad ?” 

“ I haven’t a notion. lias she discovered a flaw in some bosom 
friend’s pedigree, and so been compelled to cut her acquaintance ?” 

“ Why, she has taken a sudden dislike to your protege, Terence 
Clancy, and wants me to drop him.” 

The widow’s pale quick eyes fell ; fearing to betray herself, she 
turned to the glass again. Poor Kate ! It was too naively delicious 
to hear her father bawling out the family secret thus ! There was 
Kate, crimson with vexation, making signs to him, while he poured 
out Terence’s praises, intermixed with appeals to the visitor for cor- 
roboration. 

“ Never dare to disparage my ‘ pretty boy ’ Terence again !” cried 
• the widow, after superadding her praises to those of Mr. Tredethlyn. 
“Never hint at such a thing,” she insisted, shaking her head at 
Kate, and showing her gleaming teeth, “ or I shall believe you are in 
love with him !” 

Poor Kate, with her hands tied by the dread of exposing Nell, was 
quite beaten flat between the pair. 

“ And now that I’ve scolded you well, my dear,” the lively woman 
resumed, “ I’m going to turn suppliant, and entreat your assistance 
to-night. I have three new men staying with me unexpectedly — 
two hussar cousins and a fast young barrister, and amuse them I 
must, by hook or by crook. Besides, I have boasted so much about 
the belles of our neighborhood that, merely to preserve my eredit, 
you and Nell must come and dine to-night. I’ve got a few people 
together at a moment’s notice, so pray don’t make difficulties. And 
I have asked Simon ” (the speaker forgot to mention that he had 
refused), “and Captain Rush, and the Bulteel girls, and a few others.” 

Kate hesitated. 

“Your pet aversion, my ‘pretty boy,’ hasn’t been asked, so don’t 
be alarmed.” 

Kate accepted forthwith, with a sigh of relief. The visitor en- 
joyed another inward laugh. But straightforward Kate was pres- 
ently to deal her shrewd adversary a facer calculated to astonish 
her not a little. Just as her visitor rose to go, .she exclaimed quite 
s’vnply, as though innocent of giving any but the best news: 


95 


“By-the-bye, father, I have a strong impression that we shall lose 
Nell rather sooner than we have anticipated. Simon is to ride over 
after lunch, and I verily believe they intend to discuss no less a ques- 
tion than the wedding-day.” 

Kate was quite proud of the matter-of-course way in which she 
delivered this ; not a soul, she considered, could possibly suspect her 
of any special anxiety on Nell’s behalf. 

Mrs. French-Chichester winced under the stroke for one moment, 
but recovered herself the next. She guessed precisely what had 
happened, and that there was a likelihood of Terence’s very success 
proving fatal. He had, in fact, won a dangerous victory, thereby 
exposing to Nell the state of her heart ; and instead of surrendering, 
as an ordinary rational girl would have done, she must needs turn 
heroic, and, like a British army, only begin to show her real mettle 
when well beaten. The shrewd critic felt that she had not allowed 
quite enough for this same old-fashioned romanticism of Nell’s; but 
if she had been taking things too easily lately, she saw her error 
clearly enough now, and fully meant to have her own way in spite 
of it. For her interests were nearly concerned in this question of 
Simon and Nell ; and her will, once braced up to a given course, sel- 
dom failed to bend circumstances accordingly. 

“ Fm so glad you’re here this morning,” Kate continued, “ for 
you’ll join me in persuading my father to give Nell leave of absence. 
You, at any rate, will understand how absolutely necessary it will be 
for her to go up to town about her trousseau as soon as the day is 
settled ?” 

“ Gracious, child, you quite take my breath away ! Do you mean 
to say that Simon has actually screwed himself up to the point of 
asking to have the great day fixed? I thought our Arcadian pair 
would have been billing away for at least another year before that. 
Is there a brief lull in his schemes, or does he propose to turn 
Monks Darnerel into, say a home for inebriates, and require Nell’s 
services as head matron? Mr. Tredethlyn, what do you say to hav- 
ing your Nell snatched away in this ruthless manner?” 

Mr. Tredethlyn’s looks answered for him ; his ruddy face had 
actually paled at Kate’s announcement. To lose Nell ? He had not 
half made up his mind to such a sacrifice, for another year at least. 
Nell was a necessity of his existence, the very light of his eyes. His 
mingled horror and bewilderment caused the visitor to bubble over 
with laughter, in which Kate joined more from excitement than mirth. 

“ Come, come, Kate, how can you have the heart to throw an in- 


96 


dulgent parent into such a state ; you, who want to deprive him of 
his doctor, too? Really, this is a most unnatural and cynical age. 
Mr. Tredethlyn, I must* positively come to your rescue in this strait. 
We’re not going to have Nell snatched away in this bandit fashion, 
are we? with a hole-and-corner wedding, and a jerry-built trousseau? 
No, no ; our little beauty is not to be surrendered in this off-hand 
fashion. We must have due notice — six months, at least, I should 
stand out for — and then a grand wedding with proper alarums and 
excursions. You must put your foot down for once, and I’ll sup- 
port you through thick and thin. shall manage to talk over Nell 
to-night, and insure you some reprieve. Meanwhile, let Simon start 
a lunatic asylum to keep himself quiet. Well, I really must be 
off now, as poor Miss Sherringhara will be looking for me. Six 
months, mind — and no surrender !” 

In two minutes Mrs. French -Chichester was rattling down the 
drive, and had disappeared round the corner of the laurels. 

She drove straight to the house of Miss Sherringham, an invalid 
friend who lived in the town. She was generally understood to be 
very kind and attentive to this old friend, and thus earned a good 
deal of praise on rather slight grounds. To-day’s visit was brief and 
characteristic; that is to say, she rattled away for some ten minutes, 
hardly allowing the invalid to get in a word. She was dreadfully 
busy, was pulled this way and that with her calls and duties and 
shoppings, and quite grieved that she could spare poor Amy so few 
minutes. Meanwhile Amy’s trained nurse remained grimly silent in 
the background. Having opportunities not open to the public of 
estimating the real worth of this popular great lady, the nurse wag 
quite aware that this friend, who was generally supposed to be so 
kind and attentive to the poor old invalid, was a grasping, unscrupm 
lous woman, whose friendship hinged upon the main chance. Even 
the presents that came from Hollacomb Manor — the flowers, grapes, 
etc. — were showy rather than substantial, designed to impress visib 
ors rather than add to the invalid’s comfort. 

“ And now for Terence,” thought the keen widow, the ten mim 
utes due to friendship being punctually discharged. She drovti 
rapidly up the hill, and was relieved, on inquiring at the WhiW 
House, to find Mr. Clancy at home. 

“Terence,” she began, the moment he came into the room, with 
a friendliness which, coming from a grande dame to a humble 
doctor, was somewhat intoxicating, “ if I send my cart away, could 
you spare me half an hour, and drive me home afterwards?” 


97 


Certainly he could, with the greatest pleasure. He was quite 
thrilled by this flattering attention, as was natural enough. She 
thereupon sent oflE her servant with the dog-cart, hoisted her sun- 
shade, and strolled down the steep garden with her gratified host. 

There was a path half buried in bushes at the bottom of the 
slope, which would serve very well for a quiet tete-a-tete ; and in 
this secluded spot the good - natured woman, with many kind 
smiles and delicate strokes of flattery, opened her mind to Terence 
Clancy. 

As the stately widow swept along in her dainty morning cos- 
tume, with her grand air of genial superiority, Terence felt quite 
dominated by her. Never a conceited man, he asked himself, “ Who 
am I, that this important personage, merely to bow to whom in the 
High Street is a kind of distinction, should thus treat me as a 
friend — from pure good feeling, too ?” 

She had always been kind to him — a nameless, penniless, young 
general practitioner; and now, just when he was entangled in a 
most difficult, most delicate situation, when he knew not which way 
to turn, she had come to his rescue unasked. There was no diffi- 
culty in gaining Terence’s confidence. Harassed as he was, it was 
an ^immense relief to him to pour forth his troubles freely. It 
lightened his heart and conscience to explain to this sympathetic 
listener how he had been imperceptibly drawn towards Nell Tredeth- 
lyn, lured on bit by bit by circumstances until, before he could half 
realize what had happened, he found himself in his present dis- 
honorable position. His listener had the less difficulty in compre- 
hending the position since the whole story was stale news to her, 
and the situation itself in some measure her own handiwork. But 
she encouraged him to pour it all forth, saying, “ It will do you 
good Terence, and I’ll tell you what I think about it presently.” 
She saw that his distress was genuine, that she must needs ease his 
mind and conscience as a first step towards gaining her end. She 
understood him the better from having a genuine liking for the 
bright young Irishman ; for, unlike most of her friendships, this one 
had increased with intimacy. In truth, this strong, hard woman, 
had a quasi-motherly affection for the weak, soft-hearted man, and 
was really anxious for his happiness. 

“Terence,” she said, presently, her’white ungloved hand resting 
upon his arm, “ I tell you frankly that I came to see you on Nell’s 
account as well as your own. Do you know that the date of her 
wedding is very likely being discussed at this moment while we 
7 


98 


talk? That the event will probably take place, if no steps are taken 
to save her, in a few weeks?” 

“ I knew it,” groaned Terence ; “ I knew he had been asking her 
to fix the day. And she must consent; if not now, in a day or 
two.” 

“ Yes; if no one cares for her enough to come to her rescue.” 

“I fear that’s impossible. She and I are both bound hand and 
foot by chains of honor — ” 

“ Forged by your own morbid inner consciousness, Terence. 
Good heavens! is a girl to be bound forever because she once gave 
a reluctant consent to a man whom time has shown that she can’t 
care for? Pshaw! I’ve no patience with that sort of canting trash.” 

“ Ah, but look at my obligations to him ! He has raised me 
from — ” 

“ Yes, yes, I know all about it. Haven’t I had fables of Simon’s 
generosity dinned into my ears any time these five years? I know 
well enough that he can be tolerably generous with his father’s 
money ; most men can. But I never heard of his stinting himself 
much. That precious observatory of his cost thousands — and of 
what earthly use is it? Professional astronomers have done all there 
is to be done long ago, and how much the better are we for their 
work ? Look you, Terence, if you’d keep friends with me, don’t 
harp on Simon’s cheap benevolence; the subject always spoils my 
temper. Now, I believe your only real obstacle, the thing that 
really sticks in your throat, is Simon’s loan or gift ?” 

“That most of all, certainly.” 

“ Then listen ; and don’t interrupt me. He shall transfer the 
debt to me. I will be your creditor for a few years, when you will 
easily repay me. Will that unloose your chain, or are you quite de- 
termined to spoil Nell’s life and your own from sheer mawkish 
sentiment? SheUl sacrifice herself, be very sure of that, touched as 
she is with some of Simon’s lunacy. Her fate is in your hands. 
You can make her intensely happy, load her with love and care, 
make every hour of her life worth living, or you can bind her fast to 
a man whom her very bondage will quickly teach her to hate. These 
two courses are open to you, and if you’re not man enough to choose 
the right one, why, you’re not the good-hearted Terence Clancy 
upon whom I have pinned my faith !” 

The speaker was wrought up to an emotional pitch, which sur- 
prised Terence not a little; nor could he quite disguise from himself 
that what stirred her rpost was not so much affection for Nell as 


99 


hatred of her cousin Simon. lie had always suspected this, her 
good-natured gibes at Simon having an invariable thread of spite 
running through them ; but now for the first time this hatred had 
poured itself out unchecked. He wished only to- see a kind friend 
helping him, but he saw, too, Simon’s enemy tempting him. Still, 
the pressure on his conscience was lessened ; the monetary obliga- 
tion might be removed — there, at least, was immense relief. 

Terence turned to his companion, glowing with gratitude and re- 
newed hope ; she read her victory in his swimming eyes. A little 
more flattery, a dose or two more of sophistry, and he would be 
hers. Her quick mind ran over the chances of the coming cam- 
paign, the forces she proposed to array, the opportunities to con- 
trive. Already the ardor of the combat possessed her strongly. She 
felt herself pitted against Simon, and with all the odds in her favor, 
yet the issue well spiced with uncertainty. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A PARTY at Hollacomb Manor had all the surprise possibilities of 
a child’s bran pie. No one ever felt sure as to what would come of 
an invitation from Mrs. French -Chichester, whether a staid hyper- 
English evening in the drawing-room, with a quiet rubber, a little 
music, and the carriages at eleven sharp ; or the liveliest of dinners 
followed by pool and “ long drinks ” in the billiard-room afterwards. 
The widow prided herself upon her faculty, sharpened by years of 
experience at rapid Indian stations, of entertaining all sorts and con- 
ditions of people — even to those unspeakable bores her county 
neighbors — though after a party of this complexion she generally 
found it necessary to run up to town for a day or two by way of re- 
lieving the consequent depression. Some people looked grave about 
the Hollacomb entertainments, but she had a reputation for such 
good-nature and cleverness, and, moreover, entertained such very big 
people at times, that the murmurs against her were apt to be quickly 
drowned in the general chorus of praise. You might meet Lord 
Bridistow, the reigning peer of the neighborhood, in her drawing- 
room, with the Bishop of Extaple, and other such magnates ; or you 
might find yourself in a room full of country curates and their wives, 
for the best-dressed woman in the district, as the widow rightly con- 
ceived herself to be, liked well to queen it among “ the dowdies,” as 
she called them. 

As for the young people, not one of them ever came amiss to 
this genial hostess. No young woman with the least prettiness or 
charm about her, no young man with a single word to say for him- 
self, ever failed of a welcome at Hollacomb. Her genuine good- 
nature in this respect, and love of seeing young people happy, wej-e 
good points about this rather faulty Lady Bountiful, and had the 
effect of making the manor-house a genuine forcing- house for 
young romance, where flirtation ripened into engagement with al- 
most breathless celerity. 

Upon entering the drawing-room this evening Kate perceived at 
once that the party was of a lively order ; Mrs. French-Chichester’s 
sparkle and vivacity being alone sufficient to indicate the style of 


101 


her guests. In fact, she wore the peculiarly audacious smile which 
only appeared in the bracing society of fast people. She greeted 
Kate with effusion, overwhelming her with thanks for taking pity on 
her destitution at such short notice. Her two cousins, the Plungers, 
hovered about during these preliminary greetings and were speedily 
introduced ; a‘s also was the fast young barrister, who looked so un- 
commonly rapid, not to say rakish, as to make the brace of subal- 
terns seem quite callow and Arcadian. Kate decided to hate the 
man before he had quite finished his bow. The moment afterwards 
she caught sight of Terence Clancy, and her hostess whispered, 
“ So sorry, dear, but I had to ask Terence, after all ; one of my hus- 
sars was at Rugby with him, and I really couldn’t omit him without 
awkward explanation.” 

This rapid aside was overheard by Captain Rush, who passed close 
to the pair at this moment, and it gave him the key to Kate’s anx- 
ious looks. It was clear that she had fallen into the same suspicious 
groove as himself, that she feared Terence Clancy. He presently 
made an opportunity for pumping young Macdonald, one of the 
subalterns, which was easily done, since the barrister was monopo- 
lizing Miss Tredethlyn, while their hostess kept Nell under lock and 
key, so to say, turning a blank eye upon the most appealing glances of 
her young cousins. That ill-used pair presently fell back, exchang- 
ing a scowl, and were pleased to receive Rush with civility. Kate 
observed that they were even deferential to him, and thus had ocu- 
lar proof of what she had often heard, viz. — that he was a man of 
some note in his profession. 

In point of fact, Kate had a great desire for Captain Rush’s help 
and sympathy this evening; for Nell had carried out her resolution, 
and actually fixed the date of her wedding-day, and her present self- 
sacrificial condition might well be a dangerous one. Indeed, now 
that she thought herself completely mistress of her weakness, fairly 
launched upon the path of renunciation, her resisting power was 
probably at its weakest ; nor was Terence one to throw away a chance 
from dulness of perception. But Rush, thoroughly offended by her 
treatment of his father on the day of the picnic, declined even to 
look at Miss Tredethlyn this evening, and there was no one else to 
befriend her. 

Julius Rush, with the usual success of a tacituru man when it 
pleases him to exert himself, easily drew out the beardless Plungers, 
learning incidentally that one had been at Haileybury, the other at 
Eton, so that neither had ever seen Clancy before this evening. By 


102 


the direction of their glances Kate guessed that the Irishman was the 
subject of their talk, and was tortured with anxious curiosity. She 
looked almost imploringly at Captain Rush, caught his eye, and 
bowed; but no use, he returned her bow stiffly, without the faintest 
symptom of any intention to do more. 

At dinner Kate’s uneasiness was not soothed by seeing Clancy 
placed exactly opposite her sister, and shining with even more than 
his usual brilliance. Half the table was listening to him ; he seemed 
doing his utmost to surpass himself, and Kate clearly detected a 
sort of forlorn-hope recklessness in the frequent glances he bestowed 
upon Nell. Meanwhile her next-door neighbor, the fast barrister, 
poured upon Miss Tredethlyn a flood of fashionable talk which in 
her present fretted condition was a mere waste of intellect. 

It was with a sigh of genuine relief that Kate — at the end of long 
hours, as it seemed — perceived Mrs. French-Chichester’s signal, and 
found herself in the drawing-room with Nell safe under her wing. 
Afterwards Captain Rush would help her ; surely he would relent 
and be friendly again, when, under her direction, he might be of real 
service by fastening himself to Clancy for the rest of the evening. 
Kate was in a mood to respect him highly to-night : he seemed to 
be the only man present with any real weight and solidity about him; 
and somehow his mortifying indifference to herself raised him in her 
esteem. 

As soon as the gentlemen came in Captain Rush marched straight 
past Kate’s chair, and was at once absorbed by two eager Miss Bul- 
teels. Then, by way of putting a finishing touch to her vexation, 
Terence Clancy took possession of Nell with the air of one who capt- 
ures a prize and means to keep it. 

From that moment Kate was no better than a helpless spectator. 
She was skilfully entangled first in one group, then in another — by 
her resourceful hostess, and soon lost sight of Nell and Terence alto- 
gether. 

Terence’s heart beat high when he found himself in a shrubbery 
walk with Nell beside him. Other people were traversing the gar- 
den paths, but he knew where lay the best chance of escaping pry- 
ing eyes, and Nell made no difficulty in going where he chose. 
Flushed as he was with wine and excitement, this compliance of hers 
elated him still further. His remaining scruples had been blown 
away like dust by Mrs. French-Chichester’s specious arguments and 
promises; he was now fully resolved upon fighting for Nell with all 
the skill, resource, and energy he possessed. 


m 


She was paler than usual. Her pure profile looked almost white 
against the bosky darkness of the shrubberies. Terence looked down 
at her with his heart in his eyes and a whirling brain. “ Oh, Nell,” 
he said, in a shaky whisper, “ what a bitter, hard world it is ! Why 
must everything go wrong?” 

Nell showed no resentment at being addressed thus. Her Chris- 
tian name seemed to belong naturally to the moment, to be a part of 
the solemn intensity of this, her parting scene with Terence — for 
such she intended to make it. 

“Yes, there are hard things,” she acquiesced, in a voice much 
firmer than his; “ yet there’s a keen satisfaction in just doing one’s 
duty, isn’t there?” 

She accepted his meaning frankly, then ? He might have foretold 
as much ; no mock modesty or pretence of blindness would be pos- 
sible with Nell. Her tone said, plainly, “ Of course we are both mis- 
erable, and must be, for duty demands it.” 

Terence felt this to be an ominous beginning, and had a chill per- 
ception that her very willingness to be alone with him, the suppressed 
excitement of her manner all the evening, and other symptoms upon 
which he had been building a handsome edifice of hope, should 
really have been read as danger signals. Yet this first note of oppo- 
sition only intensified his stubborn resolve to conquer. If she was, 
as he now perceived, in the very wrath and ecstasy of renunciation, 
why, he was possessed as vehemently by quite another passion. 

“ You think, then, that conventional propriety should override any 
such trifie as the happiness of two lives ?” 

“ Yes, when propriety is synonymous with honor.” 

“ Honor?” be repeated, \rathfully. “ Honor’s the most deadly 
fetich ever set up by human folly, and causes more misery even than 
poverty or ill-health !” 

She looked at him pityingly. Such a sentiment coming from him 
— the soul of honor — was indeed confirmation of how much he had 
SufIcTC'd. 

• “ That is not like you, Terence,” she said, gently. 

That “Terence,” coming softly from her, backed by the glance 
which told far more than she imagined, helped to madden him. 
Without caring who listened or what might be the consequence, he 
gave voice to the burning appeal that had been upon the tip of his 
tongue for weeks. 

" “ Nell, Nell, I love you ! For months I have been tortured with 
this, and speak I will ! What has honor to do with it? How could 


104 


I tell that this fever would come upon me ? It possessed me be- 
fore I was half aware of any danger. You know it well enough ; 
you know I never dreamed of injuring my friend. You’ve led me 
on without knowing it; you’ve robbed me of my happiness! Is a 
man dishonorable for being robbed ? Nell, there has been no fault 
on either side, but only nature. You never cared for him, and can 
never give him any real happiness, though by clinging to him you 
can make us all three miserable for life. Nell, I will tell him the 
whole story and appeal to him, and he’ll set you free. I’ll give 
back his gift, and we’ll go away together; and I’ll work for you. 
I’ll slave to make a happy home for my beautiful Nell, and surround 
her with love and sunshine.” 

Not until this moment had Nell known the overwhelming possi- 
bilities of temptation. Every burning word he had said seemed 
true. No fault — no fault anywhere — and nothing but wretchedness 
before them both. Flushed by her evident weakness, Terence stooped 
suddenly and kissed her lips, and so released her at a touch. Crim- 
son with shame, she thrust him back. 

“ Never dare to speak to me again I” she panted, with flaming 
eyes. 

lie shrank back, his eyes full of woman’s tears. 

“ Never speak to you again, Nell ? You’ve robbed me of heart 
and soul and will ; you’ve made me half-mad by leading me on to 
love you, and now you leave me to groan through life alone. I 
wish to God I had never met you !” 

With that he turned and fled through the bushes, out at the 
shrubbery gate, through the meadows beyond, and into the Holla- 
comb Woods. Downward he plunged, with brain on fire, until he 
found himself by the Chilling stream, then flung himself upon a flat 
bowlder, plunging head and face into the cool bright water. 

It was like Terence to begin with over-confidence and end by giv- 
ing up hope at the first serious rebuff ; still more like him was the 
mood of intense self-pity into which he plunged as soon as the first 
rage of his disappointment abated. With what a sickening irony 
Fate always chose to treat him 1 No sooner was the sordid strug- 
gle against material circumstances over, the hard grip of poverty re- 
laxed, than he was compelled to endure the pangs of disprized love ; 
and the knowledge that Nell cared for him, longed for him, was 
crushing her own hopes as well as his, was like a poison in his blood. 
His oddly mixed feeling towards Simon, compounded lately of grat- 
itude and jealousy, friendship and malignant envy, was settling into 


105 


downright hatred of a successful rival. Impossible not to hate a 
man who had snatched happiness from him, bound him with fet- 
ters of intolerable kindness. How little those fetters had hindered 
the action of his tongue when he poured his eloquence upon Nell just 
now Terence never reflected ; the memory of a man acting as coun- 
sel for himself being a water-tight receptacle for evidence in his own 
favor, a sieve for all besides. He only felt that through this perni- 
cious benefactor — a man all kindness on the surface, all rank selfish- 
ness within — Fate had been playing skittles with him, setting him 
up square and firm one moment, just for the pleasure of knocking 
him flat the next. Between the gusts of self-pity came the weak 
man’s longing for consolation. His thoughts turned naturally to 
the only person who had any real sympathy for him — to pretty 
Mary Pethick, whom he had not seen for so long. Her timid ad- 
miration, he felt, her innocent worship from a distance, would soothe 
and comfort him, weighed down as he was by undeserved misfort- 
une. He must see her again soon — to-morrow, if possible; or why 
not to-night? He looked at his watch ; it was barely half-past ten. 
She would as likely as not be walking home along the canal at this 
hour, as she was wont to leave the town about ten o’elock. At any 
rate, it was worth a climb up to the canal on the chance of getting 
a glimpse of her; so without more ado he struck into a path which 
led upward from the river. 


CHAPTER XV 


It chanced one mornin^^, some three weeks after a certain scene 
at Hollacomb Manor, that Nell Tredethlyn had an unexpected meet- 
ing with the man whom she had resolved to treat as a stranger 
during the remainder of her natural life. 

She had seen nothing of Terence since her dismissal of him at 
Hollacomb, and had spent the intervening period in trying to drive 
him clean out of her mind, sometimes even attaining that end for, 
perhaps, an hour at a time. Unfortunately for Nell’s peace and 
comfort she had not been allowed to pay her proposed visit to Lon- 
don. Sir Hamo had put his veto upon it, and had lately become so 
peevish and fractious that, for Simon’s sake, who had to bear the 
brunt of his father’s irritation, Nell had foregone her scheme ; and 
Kate was now staying with the London aunts and conducting the 
important campaign of the trousseau in her sister’s place. Thus 
Sir Hamo’s fondness for.Nell, which seemed rather to increase with 
his declining health, tied her to a neighborhood from which she 
would very gladly have been absent at this period. It also made 
possible the above-mentioned meeting with Terence Clancy. 

Nell was strolling down to the lodge gate after breakfast that 
morning, and came upon Terence suddenly, just as she emerged 
from the laurelled path. She was fluttered and upset by the unex- 
pected encounter ; but, collecting her forces, gave him a cool nod, 
and a glance containing not the least decimal fraction of a wel- 
come. 

Terence Clancy stood before her humbly, as a subject before his 
queen, not daring to raise his eyes to hers. No man could look 
more supplicating than he, nor could any show a woman more 
tender deference with voice or bearing. And with Nell he could 
not well be too humble, as he knew. His one chance of forgiveness 
lay through her pity. 

And Terence meant to be forgiven — he had come for that pur- 
pose; and now that her rich beauty was once more before his eyes, 
while she herself seemed further removed from him than ever, his 
desire to gain her seemed to increase tenfold. Without raising his 


107 


eyes he could see how her hands trembled, and he was far from 
feeling as hopeless as he looked. 

“ I must apologize,” he began, with a certain proud humility, 
“ for appearing before you at all ; but Mr. Tredethlyn asked me 
here this morning, and I hardly liked to refuse.” At this point he 
caught a glimpse of the mounting color that she was frying to keep 
down. 

“ If you wish it, however, I will decline to attend Mr. Tredethlyn 
any more. Such a step must of course injure my prospects ; but I 
don’t care for that, though it does hurt me to make so bad a return 
for your father’s kindness.” 

“I don’t want to injure your prospects,” she said, stiffly. Then 
in a burst characteristic enough in its innocent exposition of her 
secret, “ I feel that you ought not to he here^ 

Sly Terence waxed more humble than before. 

“ I see that you can’t bring yourself to forgive me,” he sighed, 
“ and I don’t complain. I forgot myself for one moment, and so 
have sacrificed your friendship for life. Well, I shall always be a 
lonely man and — and nothing matters much now.” 

“ Bik I hope you will be very successful and happy ; that you 
have a career before you.” 

“Happy?” He smiled sadly; his blue eyes were swimming as 
they met hers for a moment. 

Poor Nell was harassed and puzzled. She knew quite well that 
she had iorgiven him already — far too soon, as she admitted to her- 
self — and it seemed hypocritical, if not unkind, to persist in hostil- 
ity towards so humble a penitent. But then there was her duty 
to Simon ; and yet again, entangled therewith, was the duty she 
owed her father. Mr. Tredethlyn would be vexed — perhaps seriously 
offended — at this mysterious withdrawal of Terence Clancy’s pro- 
fessional services, and would talk about it ; and people might sus- 
pect that Nell cared too much for the brilliant young doctor. And 
surely, surely her first duty to Simon was to guard this painful 
secret. She turned doubtfully towards the house, Terence walking 
meekly at her side, but inwardly full of flattering hopes. 

As they crossed the gravel sweep Mr. Tredethlyn came out to 
meet them. 

In the comfortable parson’s manner there was a hint of something 
like awkwardness, though he greeted Terence cordially as usual. In 
point of fact, Mrs. French-Chichester had a day or two ago made a 
suggestion quite in accordance with her usual good sense and sym- 


108 


pathetic appreciation of his digestive troubles, and which commend- 
ed itself highly to Mr. Tredethlyn. Yet, now that the moment 
for carrying it out had arrived, he felt slightly embarrassed. It had 
occurred to her that Terence Clancy might be asked to spend a week 
or two up at Moor Gates, and so be in a position to thoroughly 
study his patient, and perhaps to effect a permanent cure of his 
liver malady. This might easily be managed, since Terence had 
not yet definitely commenced practice in the town, his present 
duties being confined to riding round the country to pay a few dis- 
tant visits. 

For the next few weeks, until the new fittings of his surgery were 
completed, and the new stock of drugs got in, he would probably 
have nearly half of every day to himself. 

The suggested arrangement seemed to Mr. Tredethlyn to be full 
of comfort and symmetry. He pictured himself strolling about the 
garden of an evening, spreading out before Terence each trouble- 
some symptom in turn, and drinking in the clever doctor’s hints 
thereupon. But there was one obstacle to be got over ; there was 
Nell to propitiate. Fortunately Kate was away, or the scheme would 
have been hopeless; unfortunately, however, Nell had also taken to 
avoiding Dr. Clancy, doubtless reflecting the color of her sister’s 
prejudice, and might now be expected to make objections. Hence 
the simplest, as also the shrewdest, plan would be to give the invi- 
tation in Nell’s presence, and so compel her to second it. 

Mr. Tredethlyn began at once to question Terence as to his work, 
drew from him with bland cunning the admission of his freedom 
during so many hours of the day, and then clapped roundly into 
the invitation in a manner that quite took Nell’s breath away. 

Terence shot one imploring glance at her; then refused, with 
obviously wistful regret. The refusal at once clinched Mr. Tredeth- 
lyn’s resolution. He pressed the young Irishman kindly and insist- 
ently, then sent him into the garden to think further about it, ex- 
plaining that he had a letter to finish himself, and would rejoin 
them shortly. Nell, pale and palpitating, was thus left alone with 
Terence to confront this awkward situation. 

“ Do not be alarmed,” he said, proudly, but with sorrow under- 
lying pride; “I shall stick to my refusal, although — although noth- 
ing ; I shall stick to it through thick and thin.” 

“ I am sorry,” Nell rejoined, with difficult steadiness. 

He seemed so generous and noble, so ready to sacrifice himself, 
that it was very painful to have to dismiss him thus; nor had Nell 


109 


any fear of herself now, feeling, as she did, so braced up for duty, 
so sternly and invincibly loyal. She was about to dismiss Terence 
for his own sake alone — and thereby injure him with her father! 
Mr. Tredethlyrt, for all his bland good -nature, was thoroughly ac- 
customed to having his own way, and quite capable of calling in 
another doctor if Terence chanced to offend him ; and one seceding 
patient is apt to draw others after him. Once more, there was 
Simon to be considered. What would he think when Mr. Tredeth- 
lyn told him, as would certainly be the case, how Nell had chilled 
Terence into refusing this invitation ? Would not even Simon’s 
suspicions be aroused ? 

Thus was poor Nell mentally driven hither and thither, until she 
could hardly think coherently, the while Terence walked sadly by 
her without speaking a word, well knowing that for once silence 
was the best eloquence. 

In a few minutes Mr. Tredethlyn rejoined them, and on further 
pressure from him Terence cast a glance of such penetrating appeal 
at Nell that she looked a half - assent in reply — and the thing was 
done. 

Nell had now allowed temptation to close with her, and was in 
for a bitter wrestle. 

For this last move of Mrs. French - Chichester’s was a passing 
shrewd one. She had felt baffled lately, and angry with Terence 
for his continued neglect of his opportunities; having conceived 
him to be a man of spirit, she now found him a tame, nerveless 
fellow. 

But, in point of fact, this acute tactician had not yet fathomed 
half the deeps and shallows, the eddies and backwaters of Terence’s 
character ; it had not once occurred to her, for instance, that, while 
apparently overcome with disappointment, he might have been con- 
soling himself with another piece of love-making. At any rate, she 
had now provided him with a last chance of showing his mettle — 
if he had any. 

At first all was deceitful calm. Terence took up his quarters at 
Moor Gates, and spent most of the first day on his rounds ; then 
followed the quiet half-hour’s medical talk in the garden to which 
Mr. Tredethlyn had been looking forward with so much ardor. 
Aftervvards, Simon came over to dinner and made Nell and Terence 
sing duets to him for the best part of the evening ; and finally Ter- 
ence drove back with his friend to spend an hour or two in the 
observatory, where Simon, having undertaken some rather elaborate 


110 


astronomical work for an old Cambridge friend, was very busy just 
now. 

The first day having passed in this innoeent decorous fashion, 
Nell breathed more freely. She began to think she had exaggerated 
her own danger, still more so Terence’s. Why should not Simon s 
close friend be her own as well? She was already beginning to 
look upon Terence as a brother ; and surely she could not be so 
culpably weak or foolish as to be unable to train her heart in this 
safe direction. She remembered some words from Middlemarch 
which filled her with comfort, which she eould dwell upon and use 
as a kind of anodyne t “ We can keep a guard upon our constancy 
and our affections as we do upon our other treasures.” She thought 
to nail her constaney and her affection to Simon as one nails fruit- 
trees to a wall ; and always walked about hammer and knife in 
hand, so to say, driving in a nail here, lopping off an offending twig 
there. Terence helped her constantly, showing his penitence in a 
hundred little ways. True, he showed his devotion also, but he 
evidently strove to subdue this ; and the devotion was quite hope- 
less, therefore harmless. She reeognized it as the unspoken love of 
an honorable loyal man, who had once in a moment of passion for- 
gotten his duty to his friend ; and whose guard upon himself was 
the stricter for past remissness. Meanwhile, Mr. Tredethlyn recog- 
nized only a bright, open-hearted young friend, who possessed the 
double excellence of listening patiently and treating the liver with 
effect. 

Thus was Nell lulled into the security that breeds earelessness. 
She eeased to watch herself severely, allowed the sweetness of the 
hour to intoxicate her senses until she was like one under the in- 
fluence of a drug. The summer was at its height, the August sun 
blazed upon moor and garden, upon meadow and stream and lus- 
trous woodland; the day was full of subtle happiness, the even-tide 
a poem, the twilight a vague sweet dream. Simon’s frequent pres- 
ence, his brotherly affection for Terence, his unruffled calm, all 
helped to drown self-suspicion. Nell held his faee to be a supreme 
proof that all things were well, and the sophistry of love wove a 
net-work over the dangerous ground across which she was pieking 
her way. 

Every morning Simon would drive her over to see his invalid 
father ; every afternoon be with her for some hours at Moor Gates, 
only leaving for his observatory when darkness set in. And then ? 
Then Nell and her father would saunter in the cool air with their 


Ill 


guest or Mr. Tredetliljn would despatch the young people out- 
of-doors while he dozed over a book in his study. On these occa- 
sions Terence would speak mournfully of the struggle he had gone 
through, of the lonely life to which he was looking forward 5 of 
how, but for the tie of gratitude to Simon, he would throw up his 
practice and go to seek his fortune in distant lands, where hardship 
and danger might help a man to forget his misery — and Nell’s 
melting eyes would rest upon him sorrowfully, as she gave ear to 
the sad story. 

So passed the week. At the end of it Mr. Tredethlyn entreated 
Terence to remain just one week more, and this time he accepted 
without looking to Nell for permission. He was madly in love 
with her now, and knew not how to tear himself away. He knew 
that there was a crash imminent ; the dread of it was ever present 
with him, yet he would not voluntarily lose a single hour of Nell’s 
company, nor relinquish what hope he had of ultimately detaching 
her from Simon. 

But now at length Nell awoke to the consciousness of her ex- 
treme danger, and with her awakening the struggle entered upon a 
new phase. Sophistry had said its say, and given place to plain 
actuality ; she could pretend to herself no longer. She was think- 
ing neither of Simon’s happiness, nor of what people might say, 
nor of Terence’s prospects; but only, with a sick dread, of the com- 
ing parting from him. The thought of that parting was becoming 
a torment to her ; the pain was too sharp to admit of further pre- 
tence. The discovery was but a slight shock to Nell, for she had 
now been transported out of herself. Her heart and mind were 
possessed by passion to the exclusion of all else, the ordinary springs 
of her will seemed to have dried up, the current of her mind to 
have cut for itself a new channel, a torrent -bed down which it 
rushed without check or hinderance. The power of self-criticism 
had gone ; the collapse of her character seemed but the more com- 
plete for her former struggles. Faithfulness to Simon, until now a 
difficult but noble task, had become a sickening burden which she 
could hardly drag along from hour to hour; his single-hearted de- 
votion an offence, his blind unsuspicion an insupportable aggrava- 
tion. In her mind, surcharged as it now was, there was no room for 
pity or kindness or common justice ; Simon was simply the tyrant 
who had bound her for life to his will, who looked with smiling calm 
upon her despair. 

Mrs. French-Chichester paid Nell a visit about this time, and went 


112 


away curiously thrilled. Something in the girl’s pale face and 
stormy eyes almost shocked her. She had witnessed a good deal of 
thin sentimental love in her time, but never the possession of a 
strong nature by a strong passion. She felt even a little scared at 
the course things were taking, though at the same time thrilled 
with keenest expectation. It was evident that the crash was at 
hand, and she began to wonder what might be its consequences. 
What of Lord Timon when his eyes should be opened? She was 
aware that his easy good-nature lay upon the surface of the man, 
that there were morbid depths in his character, and possibly violent 
emotions, of which few of his friends had the least suspicion; and 
that his love for Nell was the taproot of his life, his trust in her the 
soil which nourished it. Reflecting thus, she resolved to go no 
more to Moor Gates until the crisis should be over, to avoid the 
neighborhood of the coming explosion religiously. 

Meanwhile, under Terence’s subtle manipulation, under the con- 
stant appeal of his eyes, the yearning of his whole manner, his meek 
gratitude for every kind word she gave him, Nell’s fever reached a 
climax. The situation was now intolerable to her ; she had a crav- 
ing desire first to shake off the burden of her engagement, then to 
flee abroad with her father, and see neither Terence nor Simon 
again until time and change had given her back self-mastery. One 
night she wrote to Simon a short pitiless note — the cry of a prisoner 
for liberty. Next morning, when he rode over, reaction had come, 
and she tore the note to pieces without giving it him. When he 
was gone she wrote again, this time a letter more like herself, in 
which she poured out the history of her long, futile efforts to care 
for him. This gave her some relief in the writing, but she tore it 
up again in an hour, feeling too hysterical and unhinged to face the 
consequences it would entail. When he talked glowingly of the 
coming honey-moon and the fair cities of Italy through which they 
were to wander, she listened in stony silence, feeling her chains too 
strong to be broken. 

Simon became seriously uneasy about his betrothed, but attributed 
her changed state solely to ill-health. He spoke to her father, who 
had noticed little, however, and concluded simply that the great 
heat was affecting her as it did himself. Then Simon spoke to 
Terence, and got nothing but fnoody generalities for his pains. 
Pressed further, Terence became first irritable, then savage; and 
Simon returned to his astronomical work, puzzled and hurt at his 
friend’s coudijct, but without the ghost of a suspicion as to the 


113 


truth. Though the air was charged with the weight of the coming 
storm, he was quite unable to read the ominous signs that were 
gathering around him. 

On the last evening of the fortnight, the farewell evening of 
Terence’s visit, Mrs. French-Chichester could no longer support the 
gnawing pangs of curiosity ; a reconnoitring expedition to Moor 
Gates became a physical necessity. 

In order to make her visit as casual and informal as possible she 
decided to saunter over, if only a cool breath would come to relieve 
the panting afternoon, and entreat Nell to take pity on a lonely old 
woman, who had dined alone seven nights in succession, and come 
over to Hollacomb. This plan would be simple, plausible, and suffi- 
cient; for after such a trudge on foot Nell would certainly insist 
upon her spending the evening at Moor Gates, and a single hour 
with the Tredetblyns would give so astute an observer a pretty clear 
impression of how things were progressing. 

The walk through the woods turned out to be stifling beyond ex- 
pression, and the flnal climb to Moor Gates up a steep lane, whose 
high ferny banks cut off whatever breath of air might be moving, 
caused Mrs. French-Chichester to register a solemn vow never to do 
the distance on foot again ; better the ravages of curiosity than 
such a squandering of vital power as this. 

Just as she crossed the Monks Damerel road, making for the 
lodge gate opposite, the exhausted widow was overtaken by Simon 
Secretan. She was pleased to meet him, and her heart beat quickly 
at the discovery that he was in a morbid, downcast mood. Did 
this portend the climax, the closing scene of Simon’s love - drama ? 
Would the presentiments that had occupied her mind only this 
morning be fulfilled? A few minutes’ conversation as she toiled 
along, leaning upon Simon’s strong arm, assured her that these 
hopes were premature. He spoke anxiously of Nell’s indifferent 
health, but it was clear that his present disquiet had some other 
origin. 

Simon was, in fact, fresh from one of those painful scenes with 
his father, which had become matters of almost daily experience 
lately ; for as Sir Ilamo’s health declined all his idiosyncrasies grew 
more pronounced, and his unnatural dislike of his son took a firmer 
hold upon him. He would sometimes refuse to see Simon for two 
or three days together, then would summon his son only to carp at 
and harass him. Why did he neglect Nell for his paltry play-work 
up at the observatory ? Why had he not made her his wife long 
8 


114 


ago, and so given a little brightness and love to his father’s declining 
days? He had always been a lukewarm lover, had slighted the 
sweetest girl in the world for the sake of his useless mathematics, or 
for benevolent schemes that only set people by the ears. He might 
have given a little consideration to a dying parent’s comfort and 
happiness; but no — any idle cottager or loafing town ragamuffin 
was of more importance than the parent who had begotten him. 
Thus would Sir Hamo scourge his son, ofttimes cutting him with 
quotations from the Latin poets, or lines from “King Lear” about 
the serpent’s tooth and a thankless child. 

And Simon had no skill to soften his father, no feminine tact 
wherewith to divert or lighten the invalid’s hypochondria. Too 
proud to defend himself, he could only return moodiness for moodi- 
ness, while the morbid vein that ran through father and son alike 
made between them an iron barrier. 

After a more perturbing scene than usual Simon would walk 
fiercely over to Moor Gates with a view to taking it out of himself 
with violent exercise, and afterwards soothing his spirits with Nell’s 
company ; and in this mood he had come over to-day. 

Upon reaching the house Simon and his cousin were informed 
that Mr. Tredethlyn had not yet returned from Chillington, and that 
Miss Nell and Doctor Clancy were in the garden. The servant made 
this announcement to Mrs. French-Chichester in a specially signifi- 
cant manner, adding under her breath, 

“ Miss Tredethlyn returns in a few days, ma’am.” 

The girl’s tone was a sufficient revelation that the maids were not 
as blind as their master. 

“ Well, shall we go in search of them, Simon ?” Cousin Kath- 
leen’s voice was a little shaky in spite of herself, her presentiment 
having returned with renewed force. It might be, she thought, 
that Terence had screwed his courage to the sticking point on this 
I his last day, that the hour of her triumph over Simon was actually 
at hand. There was a look of mingled fearfulness and gratified spite 
in her pale eyes, her breath came short, and her smile was anxious. 
If things had fallen out according to her wishes, there was no know- 
ing what might be the final issue of Simon’s discomfiture. She would 
not have exchanged the tingling excitement of this moment for any 
knowable happiness, though her extreme nervousness amounted al- 
most to a pain. 

Unconscious Simon, cheered by the near prospect of seeing Nell, 
bad by now plucked up his spirits somewhat. 


115 


“ I dare say,” he remarked, briskly, “ Nell has taken Terence up 
for a look at her favorite bit of moor from under the larch clump?” 

“ Very- likely.” Her lips formed the two short words with diffi- 
culty. “The man’s astounding blindness,” she mused, “is ridicu- 
lous — or sublime, I hardly know which.” 

They threaded the garden paths, climbing gradually upward to 
where the ferny wall cut off the grounds from the moor. 

“ Not a glimpse of them yet ; they’ll be under the larches, as I 
said.” Simon’s voice was serene as the summer afternoon. 

They were soon coasting along the low wall, with the blaze of 
gorse and heather on their right, and Chillington glimmering in hot 
mist away on their left. Then they entered the green gloom of the 
larches, their noiseless feet pressing the carpet of moss beneath. 

“ Is this blind lover,” Mrs. French-Chichester asked herself, as the 
dusk of the little wood encompassed them, and her pulses began to 
throb in her ears, “ about to emerge into daylight in more senses 
than one?” 

The moment afterwards they passed into the open space, where 
the garden-seat was placed, and at a stroke the blind lover received 
his sight. Before him, with their backs turned, sat Nell and Terence, 
hand in hand, cheek leaning against cheek, mind and soul lifted up 
and entranced. 

For a second or two Simon stretched out his hands gropingly, 
like a veritable blind man ; then reeled forward, with brain on fire, 
and every nerve braced with fierce longing to injure or kill the man 
before him. For the moment he was no better than a madman. 
He seized Terence by the hips, tossed him high over his head, and 
strode with him to the wall, making as though about to hurl him 
down upon the strewn granite bowlders on the other side. Nell fell 
to the ground half fainting with terror. Mrs. French -Chichester, 
leaning chalk-white and trembling upon the. back of the seat, had 
the presence of mind to call Simon gently by his name, and the nat- 
ural sound of her voice brought him back to his senses. He turned 
towards his cousin, and dropped his burden lightly among the brake- 
fern. 

Then, before he had time to readjust his faculties or realize what 
had happened, she seized his hand and drew him away. 

When she had got him to a safe distance. Cousin Kathleen, whose 
sympathies had gone over with a bound to the strong man who was 
trembling at her side, looked back over her shoulder. Nell was sit- 
ting with Terence’s head in her lap, wailing and moaning over him. 


116 


He was unhurt, but limp and cowed with fright — without a grain 
of manhood left in him. Whereat the widow’s, lip curled, and her 
contempt waxed hot. For the first time in her life she admired and 
respected Simon. 

“ Nell, Nell,” she muttered, “ we’ve all been fools not to compre- 
hend this man better — and you the worst of all, to throw him up 
for hat pretty, sentimental, tear-stained doll yonder !” 




CHAPTER XVI 


When Simon found himself, after some hours of fierce striding 
over the moor, at the door of that familiar workshop, his observa- 
tory, the first outrush of rage and despair had passed over; he 
had reached the stage when the mental faculties begin to clear, 
to measure the dimensions and test the weight of what at first 
seemed a huge formless bulk of trouble filling up the universe. He 
had got far enough away from the ugly thing to be able to realize 
its shape and size, to become aware that the world had not ceased 
to revolve, although the main hinge of his own life had given way ; 
that he was not even a man especially selected by Fate for the 
heaviest burden it could impose, but merely one on whom the most 
natural and ordinary of all disappointments had befallen. His 
logical habit had begun to assert itself, though his heart was full of 
wrath and bitterness. 

On his workshop table he found a letter, sent off by Nell in the 
morning, awaiting him in company with several others, for, when 
purposing to spend the whole evening at Moor Gates, he generally 
arranged to have his second-post letters awaiting him at the observa- 
tory. 

This letter was, in substance, the one which Nell had written and 
torn up several times lately ; its perusal was to Simon like the feel 
of cold iron. 

True, he was by this time beginning to realize how his own 
blindness had contributed to the disaster ; to admit frankly that his 
fatuous throwing of Clancy into such close relation with Nell was 
the achievement of an unthinking fool ; even to force upon his own 
recollection the frankly spoken diffidence with which she had first 
accepted him. But there remained the bitter fact that all the affec- 
tion he had lavished upon her had warmed her heart no whit, that 
her letter was nothing but a prisoner’s cry for liberty, that the very 
kindness and sympathy which she lavished upon the world at large 
were denied to himself. He felt that he had deserved something 
better than this cutting note from Nell, and could as yet make no 
allowance for her distracted condition. Some day, perhaps, he 


118 


might make a different summing up of the matter as between Nell 
and himself; at present he could only encourage the demon of 
jealousy to enter his mind and take full possession. 

Against Terence Clancy he felt a resentment that grew deeper as 
thought added itself to thought. For months he had been concern- 
ing himself about this man’s prospects, seeking opportunities for 
him, making friends for him ; had raised him from drudging pov- 
erty to something like affluence, had been to him a friend and a 
brother — and Terence had requited his benefactor with this ignoble 
treachery. 

Henceforward Simon resolved to be a cynic of the cynics; he 
felt that his attitude towards human nature would pass from one 
extreme to the other, that he was now hovering between his old 
fatuous optimism and an acrid pessimism which time would justify 
and encourage. If Terence, whom he had always thought so frank 
and honest, so warm-natured and guileless, so incapable of the least 
meanness — if Terence Clancy, his own familiar friend whom he 
loved, could practise such subtle perfidy as this, what must be looked 
for from the general ruck of those around him ? “ In whatsoever 

direction I turn,” thought Simon, in his w’rath and gloom, “ some 
like discovery will await me ; I will trust and believe in no man in 
future, not a soul, but accept the simple truth that self-interest is 
man’s only motive and care.” 

So he went on brooding by the dim light of his turned - down 
lamp, while all the morbid fibres of his character, silent hitherto for 
want of the touch of Misfortune’s finger, awoke and made mournful 
music. He was entering upon a new quest, bent upon an eager 
search for human depravity, schooling himself to expect it of every 
one, resolved to delve it up and feast his eyes upon it everywhere. 

When he had sufflciently hugged to himself his new discoveries, 
and darkened his heart as much as his mood required, he glanced 
through the rest of his correspondence. 

One note furnished him with just the kind of news for which he 
now felt himself to be craving. It was a hurried scrawl from Frank 
Nelson, the vicar, and regretfully informed Simon that his agent, 
Jackson — “ Fat Jackson,” as he was generally called in Chillington 
^ — was believed to have absconded. 

Friends and acquaintances had ofttimes warned Simon against 
this agent, a plump, bald-headed little man, full of geniality, and of 
a waggish good-nature which cloaked the cunning of a serpent ; but 
Simon, thanks to his trick of wilful unsuspicion, had' continued not 


119 


only to employ tins acute rogue, but to throw plenty of temptation 
in his way. .Jackson had been managing director of all my Lord 
Timon’s charitable schemes, waxing fatter and more genial on the 
toll that he had managed to extract from every one. It now 
appeared from the vicar’s note that a large sum appertaining to the 
new Working Men’s Club — which, thanks to a lack of the most 
ordinary business precautions on Simon’s part, had been placed in 
Jackson’s hands — was now missing. In fact, the genial little man, 
flushed with the success of previous minor peculations, had appro- 
priated the whole, travelled up to London first-class without troub- 
ling to leave an address behind him, and was now doubtless spend- 
ing the money like a lord. 

Simon laughed harshly at this news, for the discovery of another 
scoundrel in a man whom he had trusted fitted in with his savage 
mood to a nicety. “ They warned me against him,” he muttered, 
“ but the result would have been the same whomsoever I had trusted. 
One man is just like another ; apply the acid of temptation, and 
every one is found to be of the same base metal.” He laughed again 
more harshly as he thrust the letters into his pocket and marched off 
down the hill, pitying his own simplicity in having taken so many 
years to make this commonplace discovery. “Too much star-gaz- 
ing has blinded me,” thought he ; “ none but an astronomer could 
have hugged his folly so long.” 

As he strode down the long spur which divides the upper combe 
into two heads, the square mass of the Hall loomed vaguely up from 
the white mists of the low ground. Catching sight of it, he paused 
suddenly, and allowed the waves of bitterness to immerse him for a- 
moment. This place was to have been their home — Nell’s and his. 
In a few weeks he was to have brought hither his sweet bride, who 
was to reconcile his father to him, to pass through life always at his 
side — the honored, the beloved, the peacemaker, the idolized wife, 
the tender mother of his children. And she, too, had succumbed to 
the most ordinary temptation ; even she, his affianced bride, was not 
to be trusted for an hour; his jealous eyes should always have been 
upon her, he should never have allowed even his most trusted friend 
so much as to touch her hand. 

In this his dark hour a great longing towards his father took 
possession of Simon ; he felt a strong outrush of the heart towards 
the old man, who would now surely cease to be a stranger to his 
only son. A hope sprang up in Simon’s sore heart that the ice of 
estrangement might now at the eleventh hour be broken ; that he 


120 


might yet, before the old eyes closed in death, see in them the affec- 
tion for which he had never ceased to look. There had been faults on 
his side, too ; his pride had helped to estrange his father, he had 
exacted too much, had allowed too little for an invalid’s weakness 
and irritability — and all this he would freely confess. 

From where he stood Simon could see that a light was burning 
in the library, and he knew that the old man must be sitting up read- 
ing, as he would often do, now that sleep had become more difficult. 
The gazer’s heart was uplifted by this opportunity, a fresh spring 
of hope welled up as he thought how he would go in to the old 
man, and lay bare his trouble, and say, “ Father, I have sinned.” 

He moved down the hill with increased vigor of step, with a 
kindling of human kindness, and a warm desire to make up for past 
shortcomings. The old father loved Nell, too ; he would surely feel 
with Simon, be drawn to him by the bonds of a shared trouble. 

Descending rapidly, Simon dived into the thick mist of the hol- 
low, and presently entered the formal old garden by a small stone- 
arched gateway. Thence he made his way through green galleries, 
and past the great hedge of clipped yew to the terrace steps. 

Sir Hamo was sitting in his favorite bayj with his books beside 
him, but the reading-lamp turned low. On drawing close to the 
window, Simon saw that he was asleep, with one hand laid upon an 
open book, the other supporting his bent head. The old man 
looked very worn and feeble, and seemed hardly to breathe; a 
lonely pathetic figure he seemed to his son, whose heart smote him 
afresh as he drew nearer. The volume on the sleeper’s knee was 
“In Memoriam,” the only modern poem that had much appeal for 
Sir Hamo. He had been steeping himself in the divine despair of 
the verse, and now perchance was dreaming of the wife with whom 
had departed his desire of life. 

Simon’s yearning for reconciliation grew stronger ; and here surely 
were conditions ready fitted to that end, for his own heart was hum- 
bled, and the tears of the poet must have been falling like dew upon 
his father’s. He stole softly into the house, making straight for the 
library door. 

The old man awoke at the sound of his son’s footsteps in the 
room, his grand silver head gleaming in the lamplight as he raised 
it. He scarcely seemed to recognize Simon at first; his eye wan- 
dered vaguely round the room, as though passing over some dream- 
scene that had but half faded. Then he said, slowly, 

“ Simon, is it you ? I was dreaming of. your mother. Her face 


121 


was strangely near and real to me, and I perceive now that you are 
a little like her — only a little, though, so no wonder I have never 
seen the likeness before. Yes, I was dreaming of her, and — and I 
think our reunion is not far off, for I feel very weak to-night, my 
heart troubles me, and I feel years older than yesterday. I believe 
that I shall soon leave you — my son.” 

It was long since he had thus addressed Simon ; the words “ my 
son,” spoken in the delicate refined voice which had so long been 
used to grow harsh or petulant at Simon’s approach, thrilled the 
latter in his wrought-up state, and carried fear with them — the dread 
that his father’s end was really approaching. He drew near the 
arm-chair, his eyes full of anxious solicitude. He dared not touch his 
father’s hand for fear of scaring away this new-born complacence, 
but placed his own hand beside the old man’s upon the open volume, 
saying, 

“ Father, father, don’t talk of leaving me yet — ^just when you are 
learning to care for me. Father, I have need for you. I want you 
to forgive the pride which has never let me say this before.” 

“ Ah, Simon, you’ve always been very proud and hard ; dear 
Harao — my dear son Hamo — would never have thwarted an old 
man’s fancies as you have done. He was kind and gentle, not stiff 
and stubborn like you.” 

“ Father, I have been to blame — yet God knows I have always 
loved you.” 

“Well, well, ’tis somewhat late in the day to tell me so. We 
have drifted apart — thanks to your pride and frowardness, Simon — 
and it is over-late for soft speeches now.” 

“ You were dreaming of my mother ?” asked Simon, hoping thus 
to soften him. 

“Yes, I was dreaming of a fair land full of flowers, through 
which she swept, coming to meet me with shining eyes. But I will 
not speak to you of that sacred meeting. You are like all the 
scientific men, hard and heartless ; caring only to drudge and delve 
among material things ; aye, you’re even as the poet says, 

“ One that would peep and botanize 
Upon a mother’s grave.” 

Simon’s face hardened, and his voice grew bitter. “I suppose it 
is because of my hardness that the friend whom I trusted has be- 
trayed me, the woman I loved has asked and obtained her release 
from me ?” 


122 


“ What do you mean ? Are you befooling me to suit some 
whim ?” 

“A man hard-stricken as I am hardly cares to befool the only 
person in the world from whom he dares hope for sympathy.” 

“Do you mean — do you dare to tell me that you have quarrelled 
with Nell ?” 

The invalid half rose from his chair, his pale cheek flushed as he 
swept the volume from his knee and turned upon his son like a 
judge about to pronounce sentence. 

“ There has been no quarrel, sir,” Simon answered, with the in- 
difference of one to whom all sentences are alike; “but it has 
happened to me to find out once for all that she has no affection for 
me. We are more widely separated than if we had never met.” 

“ Then your conduct has been bad,” cried the old man tremulous- 
ly ; “ nothing but that could have estranged my loving, generous 
Nell. You have neglected her ; I’ve seen it, and spoken of it a 
dozen times. You’ve cared more for your ‘ work,’ as you call it, 
for haggling with some paltry group of asteroids, or measuring 
some unthinkable distance in space, or — tush ! I have no heart 
for casting up the sum of your follies; you have neglected her, 
I say !” 

Simon listened with a hard smile, disdaining to defend himself, 
too proud and too loyal to think of accusing Nell. 

“ It is the last straw,” murmured his father, sinking wearily back 
among his cushions. “ I have nothing to detain me here now. I 
thought to have dear Nell here to comfort my last hours, smooth 
my dying pillow ; but even that you have denied me. You might 
at least have deferred your quarrel until I was laid to rest. You 
have grudged me even the few months of peace that were left me. 
Dear Nell — poor Nell! My son has neglected you and chilled even 
your heart, for I suppose a thankless son makes a cold lover.” 

“I will say no more, sir. You should try and get some rest. 
Will you take my arm, and let me assist you up-stairs?” 

“No, no; I will not take your arm. The very sound of your 
voice is painful to me to-night. You have dealt me the hardest 
blow that has been laid upon me since your mother’s death. All I 
ask of you is to ring the bell and summon Mrs. Henley, who wdll 
give me what assistance I need.” 

Simon had fired his last shot, and had nothing now to fall back 
upon but his pride ; but even so it was not in him to lay aside his 
courtesy or stoical forbearance. He assisted his father back to the 


123 


arm -chair, endeavoring by the calmness of his manner to soothe 
the old man’s agitation, then rang the bell to summon the house- 
keeper. 

Mrs. Henley appeared with a suspicious readiness, which Simon 
in his present mood could interpret without difficulty ; he guessed 
rightly that she had been listening to their dialogue through the 
keyhole. She was a hard, thin-lipped, spiteful-looking woman, who 
now cast upon him a look of more open dislike than she had ever 
hitherto permitted herself to enjoy. 

There were gleams of triumphant malice in her cold eyes, and 
Simon, exercising his new-born faculty of suspicion with the swift- 
ness of one “ not easily jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in the 
extreme,” looked through and through this woman for the first time 
in his life. He had been surprised at times, in a passing, casual way, 
at her want of friendliness, old family retainer as she was ; now he 
could trace her enmity to its source. She had expectations from Sir 
Hamo, looked for a fat legacy from the master whom she had often 
nursed in sickness, and had the inevitable hatred of a mean nature 
for Sir Harao’s heir. For years she had been helping to alienate the 
old man from his son ; and Simon knew this now as certainly as 
though by her own confession. 

Nor would Cousin Kathleen be henceforth in the least degree 
enigmatic to him ; her pains to gain an influence over Sir Hamo, her 
constant petty disparagement of himself, were now seen to have a 
plain meaning and an adequate first cause. Nay, more — for the 
whole truth seemed to burst upon him now in one vivid flash — it 
was she who had undermined him with Nell. It must be so ; he 
could swear that it was so, though no such thought had ever entered 
his mind until this moment. She had favored Terence, had been 
his backer and stealthy abettor, as Simon could perceive, now that 
the key of the situation was in his hand. Terence might have been 
her unconscious tool, but a tool he had been. She had used him to 
widen the breach between father and son, and so to wrench them 
asunder, and leave the old man with no one but herself to look to. 
That was the end which this cheery, pleasant woman, this popular 
Lady Bountiful, whose good-nature was a byword in the neighbor- 
hood, had set herself, and had now attained. So Simon, enlight- 
ened by his wrath and bitterness, concluded; and he was not far 
from the truth. 

And how many more were to be writ down scheming plotters? 
In truth, Simon knew not where to stop ; his bitterness widened and 


124 


deepened until all the ground around him seemed to be rotten and 
shaky; until he resembled one who has dreamed of treading upon 
carpets of flowers, and wakes suddenly to find himself in the heart 
of a black, quaking bog, with foul mists brooding and crawling on 
all sides, with no path, no sky, no horizon, no hope. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Kate Tredethlyn was seated in the breakfast -room at Moor 
Gates next morning, awaiting the appearance of her father. Hav- 
ing received a telegram from him the night before, urging her im- 
mediate return home, she had thrown herself, full of gloomy fore- 
bodings, into the night mail, and had driven up to the door but a 
few minutes since. 

Miss Nell, the servants told her on arrival, was in bed, and seemed 
very unwell, and it did seem as though — But Kate would not give 
ear to another word, instinctively dreading to hear Mr. Clancy’s 
name mentioned, and anxious to check the maids’ gossiping, if pos- 
sible. The telegram, by its very baldness, had put her mind upon 
the right track. Had there been sickness in question, it would have 
been mentioned. She was keenly conscious that some crisis quite 
unconnected with health had occurred, and her fears went straight 
to Nell and Terence Clancy. 

Mr. Tredethlyn came down as soon as he was informed of Kate’s 
arrival. He looked pale and perturbed after a sleepless night, and 
his daughter’s greeting was far from encouraging. There was an 
awkward confession to be got through. He had to set forth, to a 
daughter whose attitude had always been rather critical than sym- 
pathetic, how certain things had been going on, unperceived, under 
his very nose, and what a climax of unpleasantness had supervened. 
Yet, from one or two points of view, it was a relief to see Kate, 
whose good sense could always be relied upon ; and he hoped that 
anxiety would at least dilute her sarcasm in some measure. On the 
whole he felt rather like one who, conscious of alarming symptoms, 
hastily summons his doctor, yet, dreading the probable curative treat- 
ment, thinks he will talk about the weather, after all. 

Certainly it was nervous work beginning. He plumped into his 
chair ungracefully, and asked Kate somewhat plaintively to pour out his 
coffee. He could have been more dignified had she looked less stern. 

Kate attended to her father’s wants with grave propriety, but in 
the very movement of her fingers there was a promise of something 
sharper to come. 


126 


“ I suppose,” she began presently, steadying her voice with diffi- 
culty, “ your hasty summons has something to do with Nell ?” 

“ Precisely, my dear. I was just about to open the matter to you ; 
but — but I’m afraid it will distress and vex you a good deal.” 

“ I have scarcely a doubt but that it will be something unpleasant, 
father. Has Mr. Clancy been up here much lately ?” 

“ He has — been staying here — for — a few days.” 

“Staying here? At whose invitation, father?” 

“ My own, of course, my dear.” 

“ I see.” 

Kate’s look resembled that of a school-master when he turns to the 
corner where the cane stands ; and if the large parson had not the 
face and figure of a school-boy, he had the feelings of one at this 
moment. He winced painfully, his plump cheeks grew a shade 
paler. He was ready to agree twice over with everything Kate 
might say, and would have preferred almost any penance to the 
prickly possibilities of the next ten minutes. 

“ Pray tell me what has happened.” 

Kate’s tone made him wince again ; it had the shrewdness of an 
east wind. 

Yet, now that he was really in for it, Mr. Tredethlyn recovered his 
courage, and was able to speak with dignity. He had always been 
a good speaker, and now gave as terse and telling an account of the 
events of the last few days as could be desired. 

Kate listened with quivering nerves and a desire to go away and 
weep somewhere. Her very worst forebodings had come true ; the 
situation seemed as disgraceful as she could well conceive. Her 
heart swelled with indignation against both Terence and Nell. 

“No man was ever worse treated than Simon has been!” she 
cried, her tears breaking out and her voice choking. 

“Yes,” her father sighed heavily, “that is the quick of the ulcer 
— Nell’s treatment of poor old Simon. I don’t know how I shall 
ever look him in the face again.” 

“ How could you have the man up here, father, and let him work 
upon Nell’s weakness day after day ? How could you ?” 

“ My dear, I never dreamt — ” 

“You should have dreamt,” sobbed Kate. “I often gave you 
hints; I often tried to impress you with a sense of Nell’s danger; 
and yet, the moment my back is turned, you overthrow all my pre- 
cautions at a stroke. Oh, father, had you been but less wrapped up 
in your own little ailments — ” 


127 


She stopped herself abruptly and covered her face with her hands. 
She had never spoken with such audacious candor before, and she 
saw that her words stung her father like a whip-lash. His large 
comely face flushed deeply as he drew himself up to answer her. 

“ My dear, I am aware that I have been to blame, but I never ex- 
pected to be told so by my own daughter. Yes,” he added, with a 
humility that made Kate ashamed in a moment, “I have been 
gravely to blame in this matter, and the knowledge of my own short- 
comings makes me anxious not to deal hardly with poor Nell.” 

Kate the undemonstrative drew near to her father and kissed him 
penitently. The situation, though pregnant with deeper trouble 
than they could yet foresee, had, at least, produced one good re- 
sult, for father and daughter had never understood one another so 
well as at this moment. 

“The man has a good heart,” Mr. Tredethlyn continued in a 
troubled voice; “I’m bound to say that of Clancy, though his ap- 
parent perfidy pains me. I don’t think, however, that there has been 
anything like deliberate treachery, but only culpable weakness, given 
way to and encouraged. As for Nell, her inconstancy amazes me.” 

“ I won’t have Nell abused, father ; she never cared for Simon. 
Her collapse has been the end of a long struggle.” 

“ But I have perceived nothing of the sort.” 

“ No — precisely.” 

“Surely I must have — ” 

“ I suppose you have been otherwise engaged, father.” 

Kate’s voice was still a little dry. 

“ Was Terence aware of this ?” 

“ I don’t know, and don’t care. I won’t hear a word in the man’s 
favor. I hate him — I hate him, I tell you !” 

“ He has done us a serious injury, and I find it hard enough to 
find any excuse for him, Kate. But, as I said, I blame myself also. 
There has been selfish blindness on my part. And justice is justice. 
Terence has certainly not spared himself. After that scene in the 
larch clump, when he came to confess, he told me how wretched he 
was, how he would rather have cut off his right hand than so injure 
a friend and benefactor — ” 

“ Ah, yes; doubtless he protested enough. Terence Clancy never 
wanted for eloquence. I hate a shifty, half-bad man like that worse 
than a genuine scoundrel.” 

“ Your sex is somewhat apt to appreciate a genuinely good man 
less than either, my dear.” 


128 


“ What did you say to the pair, father ?” 

“I hardly know, they overwhelmed me so with amazement; but 
doubtless I said some very bitter things, and certainly I forbade Nell 
to see or speak to Clancy again.” 

“ I wish you could remember what you said, and I only hope you 
stung him to the quick. I would ask no greater happiness at this 
moment than five minutes of plain speech with Terence Clancy. 
But that would never do ; anything of that sort might alienate Nell 
for life, for — mark me, father — she’ll marry the man.” 

“ My dear Kate, surely we can prevent that ! I will flatly forbid 
such a sacrifice. The man is utterly unworthy qf Nell.” 

“Aye — unworthy to tie her shoe-lace, and that’s how she comes 
to care for him,” said Kate, bitterly. “ And think of the scandal, 
the disgrace — horrible ! It goes to the marrow of one’s bones to 
think what people will say of her. But trust me for knowing her, 
father; Isay that no earthly power will prevent her having him 
now. If we choose to make a martyr of him, we may complete the 
disgrace by a clandestine match ; but a match there will be.” 

“ But surely our gentle little Nell can be worked upon and made 
to see — ” 

“ Our little Nell is a person of strong nature and unspeakable ob- 
stinacy ; and think to what a pitch she must have reached to break 
her engagement in this disgraceful way ! No hope, believe me — 
not a grain.” 

“ And poor Simon ?” 

“ I can hardly bear to think of him, but shall write at once to let 
him know rUy opinion of all this. I believe nothing could be worse 
for him just now than the silence of his friends. Better make him 
rage than let him brood.” 

“ I believe you are right, Kate. It will be well for me to write 
also, though a more painful duty was never laid upon me. What 
are we to do about Clancy ? what steps shall I take ?” 

“ Nothing we can do will make any difference in the end, be as- 
sured of that. We may procrastinate a little, and so water down our 
disgrace in a measure. Let Nell be sent away from now until, say, 
December, which will give Chillington about three months to masti- 
cate and digest the broken engagement, and will make the next news 
less shocking. I will answer for Mrs. French-Chichester’s silence. 
It will be generally understood that Nell and Simon have quarrelled, 
and there’ll be so many theories as to the cause that the truth may 
chance to get lost among them.” 


129 


“ In that case, blame might accrue to Simon. Better tell the 
whole truth than that.” 

“There’ll be plenty of blame thrown about, whatever course 
you take, father. Some will blame Simon, others Nell ; and nearly 
all will blame us. Every one will say, ‘ I told you so,’ and every sec- 
ond person, ‘ Serve them right’ We can no more hinder the shower 
than we can the autumn rains just beginning. I shall go about 
in a mackintosh of haughtiness, that’s all — and get myself more un- 
popular than ever.” 

“ What about Terence during Nell’s absence?” 

“ He must visk us — at least, now and then, in a formal way. If 
you cut him you show your hand at once, and, what is far more 
serious, you destroy any vestige of hope we have of bringing Nell to 
her senses. Once make a martyr of Terence, and good-bye to her. 
She and Simon are too much alike — that’s the plain truth. I’ve 
always feared for them, and heartily wish she had broken with him 
before this subtle Irishman came on the scene. Our quixotic pair 
never were like other people — never quite rational ; always in excess, 
always wandering in some dazzling region where the light is too 
strong for ordinary human nature.” 

“ One more thing, Kate — after Nell returns?” 

“Don’t talk of that time,” she cried; “after that the deluge — at 
least the wedding, for something tells me to expect the worst.” 

9 


CHAPTER XVIII 


On a certain windless day, late in December, Simon Secretan was 
leaning over the low stone-wall of the Monks Damerel road, looking 
down over Chillington. Through the thin clearing mist a trickle of 
rather wan light fell upon the roof of the railway station beneath 
him, upon the gray old town-hall beyond, and the square Gothic 
tower of the old church. There was little traflBc along this road in 
the winter; Simon had a long stretch of it all to himself now. He 
was gazing intently, moving no more than the great rough stones 
upon which his arms rested. 

For a long time he remained thus motionless, but at length the 
rumble of wheels induced him to turn his head round. A farmer’s 
gig had just climbed the steep hill from the station, and its driver 
was touching up his horse with a view to a trot along the level, 
when a pale-looking woman, who sat beside him, caught sight of the 
leaning figure by the wall, and held up her hand. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Baker; but here is Mr. Secretan, so 
there’s no call to trouble you further. Will you hand me out my 
baby-girl when I’ve got down ?” 

The young woman — she was but two-and-thirty, though strangers 
would have given her another teil years — descended; whereupon 
Mr. Baker handed down, impassively as he would have done a leg 
of mutton or a plucked fowl, a child of two years or thereabouts. 

“Little sweetheart — precious little Rose-bud, come to mother! 
Now say, ‘ Thank you, Mr. Baker.’ ” 

“ I s’an’t 1” said the child, decisively. 

The impassive Baker showed no concern, however, but drove on 
with a lift of his finger and a “ Mornin’, missis.” 

Simon, hearing his name mentioned, stared at the mother and 
child in a dazed sort of way, but could make nothing of them. 

“Why, Mr. Simon, don’t you know me, sir?” 

“ Is it you, Joyce ? Where have you sprung from ? You must for- 
give me, but I was lost in thought,” Simon added, after a pause. The 
words which had first sprung to his lips were, “You’re such a wreck 
of your former self, poor girl, that no wonder I didn’t know you,” 


131 


“You find me looking rather corpse-like, eh, sir?” 

“ No, no ; a little pale.” 

Joyce laughed,^ and in doing so took Simon back a dozen years 
in half a second. 

“There spoke your old self, sir; you would always sooner walk a 
dozen miles than hurt a body’s feelings ! That’s how it was I never 
could sauce you as I did my step-mother. Aye, and even Sir Harno 
himself at times.” 

Ill as .she was, Joyce still looked quite capable of “saucing” g 
step-mother at a pinch. There was a lurking humor in her eye, an 
upward twitch about the corners of her mouth, and withal a hover- 
ing petulance — the after-math of a self-willed girlhood — which her 
worn looks but half concealed. She was a step-daughter of Sir 
Hamo’s house-keeper, and had been brought up in the establishment 
from as far back as Simon could remember, indeed, had often been 
his nursery companion in old days. She was a small, whimsical, 
hot-tempered creature, who was made much of by almost all, and 
would be put upon by none. So popular did she become with the 
household, as she grew up, that her step-mother’s jealous pangs 
waxed unbearable, and a daily increasing stream of complaints was 
poured into her master’s ears. Sir Hamo’s weak favoritism was 
easily played upon ; every word of Mrs. Henley’s had weight with 
him. Soon after the settlement of the family in these parts Joyce 
was packed off, after a severe interchange of broadsides with Mrs. 
Henley, to a genteel milliner’s establishment in Chillington. 

So placed, her skill and taste tended to countervail a slight lean- 
ing towards insubordination. If the discipline of the establishment 
suffered somewhat, its profits increased; and Joyce was in a fair 
way to success by the time a new weakness showed itself. She fell 
in love. 

In company with her bosom friend, Mary Pethick, Joyce had 
turned up^er nose at all the young shopkeepers of the place ; but 
one evil day her humorous gray eye lighted upon a fine young cav- 
alry sergeant from Lymport, by name Melladew. 

At first Sergeant Melladew accepted her homage with good- 
humor; when it continued, he began to give ear to the reports con- 
cerning her step-mother’s successful pickings-up at the Hall ; then, 
having an even keener eye for the main chance than for female 
beauty, he decided to allow Joyce’s good worldly prospects to out- 
weigh the moderate quality of her looks. The rest followed in due 
course. Sergeant Melladew married, retired, and began to drink 


132 


away his wife’s earnings. Chillington was found too dull for him, 
and its profits too small. He carried her off to Lymport, and in- 
stalled her in a larger establishment — and the increased profits were 
met and parried by superior thirst. In brief, the man was a drunk- 
en brute — also a savage -tempered, loud-cursing, unfaithful brute. 
Joyce led with him a life of such wretchedness as satisfied even Mrs. 
Henley. She said nothing about it on her brief visits to the Peth- 
icks and other old friends ; but her paling cheek and failing step 
were a plain tale not to be misunderstood. 

Some years had passed, when ex-Sergeant Melladew’s life came to 
an appropriate and fitting close. His head was broken by the quart 
pot of an intimate, but quarrelsome, friend one evening in a tavern 
brawl at Lymport, and he only survived long enough to discharge 
one final bouquet of oaths. Joyce then found herself a free woman, 
though a broken one; and her chief desire, amounting almost to a 
mania, was to live long enough to guard her little Rose from the 
Sergeant Melladews who might cross her path. But Joyce’s body 
had never been strong enough to support her gallant spirit; every 
week now, as it passed, ate away a fresh piece of her hope, for five 
years of a savage yoke had thoroughly broken her constitution. 

When Simon began to ask about her health and prospects, she 
dismissed the subject with half a dozen words and a hard laugh ; but 
no eloquence could have given him a clearer impression of her case. 
He felt strangely drawn to this widow, who had once upon a time 
been his playmate in the nursery. 

“And this is your little Rose, is it, Joyce? I’ve heard of her once 
or twice through your friend Mary.” 

“Yes, sir; this is ray sweet and precious little rose-bud girl.” It 
was another voice that spoke now — a mother-voice, tender and soft 
as a spring breeze. 

Simon marvelled at the change, having as yet studied human nat- 
ure in the abstract rather than the concrete, and having been little 
thrown with mothers and children. 

Little Rose returned his gaze with interest. She was a quaint, 
crisp little creature, with a tangle of fair curls, and dark-gray, rogu- 
ish eyes. 

“ She has your — your — ” he began, with a man’s slowness in get- 
ting at the points of a child. 

“ My impudence, Mr. Simon ? Aye, and happen she’ll keep it — 
until she marries. Ah, if I had but a good watch-dog for the little 
one when I’m gone !” 


133 


“What has brought the pair of you here from Lyiuport, Joyce?” 

“ Why, just this, sir. Tve had Mary Pethick stayin’ with me for 
some titne, and I wanted to bring her back safe to her father — for 
I’m not easy in my mind about that young thing, Mr. Simon.” 

“What ails her? I haven’t seen her about here for months.” ^ 

Joyce looked up with a queer twist in her face, and seemed to be 
weighing something. 

“ That’s just what I was cornin’ to see you about,, sir. I told 
Mary I should, and she’s mighty savage wdth me in consequence. 
Hows’ever, I’m not easily frightened, and here I am. Mary’s in 
trouble. She was engaged to be married to — ” 

“ Ezekiel Doidge? Yes, I know, and it was broken off.” 

“ Pshaw 1 that’s nothing. Why was it broke off ? — that’s the 
question.” 

“ I haven’t a notion.” 

“ That looks bad ; he’s a shrewd un, I fear ! llarkee, sir — ’twas 
because she was in love with some one else, with a gentleman, 
whose ring she’s still wearin’, who was her promised husband. He 
got tired of her o’ course — one man’s the same as another, as far as 
I know — and left off walkin’ out with her. Lord bless me, ’tis an 
old story enough. She wrote and wrote, but never got another 
word out of him. He was makin’ up to some lady of his own sta- 
tion, I doubt. Well, I judged from the girl’s letters that she was 
miserable, and had her over to Lymport to help me with my Rosie, 
and get cheered up a bit — though the cheerin’ han’t come off yet. 
That’s all you need know at present, sir. An’ you’re a deal too in- 
nocent to guess any more,” she added, under her breath. 

“ Poor little Mary ! Is her health bad ? Is she much upset by 
this ? What can I do for her ?” 

“ Ah, that’s just the point. She han’t written to the gentleman 
for some time, but now she must see him.” 

“ But, my good Joyce, how can I help her there?” 

“ Easy enough, sir. He’s an intimate friend o’ yours, as she tells 
me — a man as you’ve been a brother to and started in life, and — ’ 

She stopped abruptly. Simon had fallen back a pace or two, and 
was staring at her amazedly. 

“ He’s a young doctor, an Irishman — ” 

“ I know, I know,” muttered Simon. “ There’s nothing to be done, 
Joyce ; she must bear her disappointment as other people have to do.” 

“ Disappointment !” she repeated, fiercely. “ Ah, how some of my 
husband’s cuss-words would help me now !” 


134 


Joyce walked aside for a space, with a sullen flush darkening her 
pale face, and neither spoke. 

After a few moments the silence was broken by the sound of bells. 
A loud, joyous peal clanged from the tower of the parish church be- 
low them. 

“ A weddin’ peal, I reckon Joyce burst forth, with a harsh laugh. 
“ I wonder who’s the victim this time ? What’s the lady’s name, 
Mr. Simon ?” 

“The bells are ringing for Miss Tredethlyn’s marriage.” 

“ Not Miss Nell ? not the one that was — ” 

“Yes, the one that was mine.” 

“ Sir, Mr. Simon, I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have come pesterin’ 
yon to-day.” 

“ Why not? One day’s the same as another.” 

“ Who’s she marryin’, sir?” 

“ The gentleman you were speaking of.” 

“ Mr. Terence Clancy ?” Joyce laughed loud and bitterly. 
“Lord, Lord, ’tis such a bitter, bad world that one must laugh or 
cry !” 

Again they gazed down over the station roof in silence. 

The streets in the neighborhood of the church were hidden by 
the houses, but there was evidently a stir in the place. People 
were hurrying across the open square by the town-hall, and the 
rumble of carriages could be heard through the swelling clang of 
the bells. 

“ How long has this affair been public news, sir?” 

“ Barely a fortnight, by the express wish of those concerned.” 

“ I suppose that’s how it is not a rumor of it has drifted over to 
Lymport. Look here, sir, yesterday Mary Pethick was in a queer 
state, oppressed with forebodings and fears, and she urged me to let 
her go; but my Rose wan’t well, so I couldn’t go with her — and 
now we’re too late. Ah ! I should ha’ sent her off, I should ha’ sent 
her off! I’ve spoilt her one chance now, poor Mary. O’ course 
Fate’s dead agen’ her — who ever knew a stroke o’ luck to come to 
any but a downright bad lot ? Will you come an’ see her now ?” 
Joyce concluded, abruptly. 

“ Certainly — where is she ?” 

“ Waitin’ for us at the canal bridge below the farm. I promised 
to join her there after seeing you, and settlin’ upon some plan for 
gettin’ hold o’ Mr. Clancy. We had best go down Pixie Lane, past 
the new cottages, and so on by the canal path.” 


136 


“ Are you able to walk the distance, Joyce 

“ I mean to, able or not.” 

“ Then give me the child.” 

This was more easily said than done. Miss Rose, finding herself 
perched upon the shoulder of a great tall stranger, screamed as 
though the universe were on the point of collapse, nor had big 
Simon the ghost of an idea how to pacify her. This gave him an 
opportunity, however, of watching the practice of an art, new to him, 
but old as the human race. 

For the baby’s attention was in a trice distracted to a passing 
“ puff-puff.” Before that was out of sight, a robin piping from the 
ash-tree hard by was pointed out as an object of breathless interest. 
Next, a small boy with clinking milk- cans was offered up in like 
manner, grinning to find himself so much admired. Simon, noting- 
how suddenly the big tears ceased to roll, thought it all a marvel of 
cleverness. 

Then, poor mother was so tired, so very tired, that it was needful 
for the baby to stroke her cheek and say, “ Poor — poor ! oh, poor — 
poor, not w'e-e-11 !” This formula, quaintly drawled, with a wrink- 
ling of the small nose, was the signal for peace ; the Rose-bud began 
to chuckle and kick as they moved off, to drum on Simon’s breast 
with heels, to clutch his hair and mustache, and presently to tear 
off his hat and beat him on the head with its brim. And so they 
passed down the hill-side, the child bubbling and babbling, and 
shrieking with laughter, only stopping now and then to cry, “ Poor 
— poor ! oh, poor — poor !” 

Had Joyce known who was following them at a distance, she 
would have led Mr. Secretan anywhither rather than to Hollacomb 
Farm, for, unknown to her, Ezekiel Doidge had seen her arrival wuth 
Mary, seen the latter walk away homeward, watched Joyce get into 
Mr. Baker’s gig, and guessed her destination. 

Ezekiel had been in a bad way ever since Mary’s departure for 
Lyrnport. On the night of their farewell, when he finally released 
his betrothed from her engagement, he had parted from her with 
bitter words and fierce hints as to Mr. Secretan, his supposed rival ; 
and the folly of this had weighed upon him since. He had written 
almost abject letters to Mary, entreating her to forgive his harsh con- 
duct, and always to let him be her friend. The only answer she 
had vouchsafed him had been gentle and humble — so unlike her- 
self, indeed, as to frighten him. He wished earnestly that she 
would return that he might keep a friendly watch. upon her, and 


136 


reason her out of this fatuous inclination towards a gentleman so 
far out of her reach. 

In his jealous, harassed mind, Ezekiel had worked out an explana- 
tion of the sudden breakage of Secretan’s engagement. Miss Nell, 
he conceived, must have had suspicions, must have become aware of 
some secret communication between her lover and Mary Pethick; 
and now that the engagement was over, there would be nothing to 
check such intercourse. This thought drove Ezekiel half crazy. He 
watched the trains in from Lymport day after day, or made secret 
excursions thither to spy out Mary’s goings-on ; and now his worst 
suspicions were confirmed. Here was Mary’s friend capturing Secre- 
tan and leading him off — reluctantly, too, as Doidge’s eager suspicion 
suggested — to an interview with Mary. It looked black, inky black, 
to poor driven Ezekiel. He followed them now, sweating with jeal- 
ous dread and hatred. 

Sheltered by the woods on the south side of the valley, Ezekiel 
watched the pair cross the open and turn down the path beside the 
canal, when there was no longer any doubt in his mind that they 
were in search of Mary. Nor was there any hurry, since a short-cut 
across some of his own fields, just below Mr. Secretan’s new allot- 
ment gardens, would take him to the farm well before them. Ho 
had time to loiter while he forged into one chain the links of sus- 
picion that circumstances, aided by Mary’s unhappy shufiling, had 
placed in his hand. 

Meanwhile, Simon and his companions progressed slowly. Joyce 
was almost dropping with fatigue by the time they had gone half a 
mile, and needed many rests; and little Rose, well dowered as she 
was with her mother’s wilfulness, insisted upon being set down fre- 
quently in order to make tottering excursions after dogs, pigs, 
chickens, and other such creatures of the chase. Nor was there any 
talk worth mentioning between them. Joyce would say not a word 
more as to Mary Pethick, except, “ Wait and see, Mr. Simon, then I 
think you’ll know all.” 

They passed slowly along the canal path, halting many times. 
Terence Clancy’s insistent joy-bells followed them, never ceasing for 
a moment. By the time they reached the farm the afternoon was 
closing in, and Joyce felt that she could barely muster courage to 
crawl on as far as the ivied bridge, where Mary would be awaiting 
them. 

It was there that Mary had first plighted her troth to Ezekiel, 
and finally parted from him ; there that she had first met Terence 


Clancy, and thrilled at his kind voice and friendly words. She had 
a fatalistic attraction towards the spot, as though her fate were 
bound up with it. “You’ll have bad news to bring me, I know, 
Joyce,” she had remarked, “and I’d rather take the blow there than 
anywhere.” 

Mary was standing close to the bridge when they arrived, among 
the broken reeds and trampled leafage of autumn ; and what flicker 
of hope there was in her face died out as soon as her eyes met 
Joyce’s eyes. The wan smile froze on her lips, and the going forth 
of her feeble hope shook Simon to the soul. Joyce’s forecast proved 
correct — he needed no explanation. He was looking for the first 
time upon despair, and recognized it as certainly as he would have 
done death. But a moment ago he had been oppressed by the mel- 
ancholy of nature, by the fading of daylight among ruined wood- 
lands; now he could only see the girl’s face. Before this human 
misery the scene, with its surface pathos, melted away, leaving only 
the stricken face, from which he could not look away. It fllled him 
with a gnawing pain, bore in upon him the infinite littleness of such 
troubles as had fallen to his own lot ; it was as though all the travail 
of a groaning world were concentrated for a moment in a single pair 
of human eyes. 

He turned aside, leaving poor shaken Joyce, as he thought in his 
heart, to do the last offices for the dead hope, since the living soul 
from which it had fled could know no comfort. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The brief two weeks which Terence had been able to snatch for 
his honey-moon were over; he had brought home his bride to the 
White House on the hill. 

It was Nell’s first morning in her new home. Terence was await- 
ing her in the little breakfast-room, looking cheerfully out over the 
town and the hills, gleaming crisp and clear after forty-eight hours 
of rain. He had been stripping the small greenhouse and decorat- 
ing the breakfast-table with the spoils. A bright fire crackled in 
the grate ; a glint of winter sun struck boldly in through the French 
windows as though to emphasize and make the most of Terence’s 
floral greetings to his young bride. 

As he stood by the window Nell rustled into the room, and her 
smile was good to look upon. 

“ How like you, Terence,” she cried, pointing at the table, “ to 
squander every flower you possess upon me in this way! You’ve 
already gone far towards spoiling me, dear.” 

She went round the table, examining every flower, praising every- 
thing. Nell had always been one of those for whom it is a pleasure 
to do things ; one whose quick gratitude for a trifling service made 
one reflect how easy must have been her nurse’s task in first teaching 
her to say, “Thank you.” When his bride took her place before 
the tea-urn, flushed with pride and happiness, Terence could hardly 
take his eyes off her. 

“ Thei;e’s not a flower here half good enough for you, dear,” he 
exclaimed, with fervor. “There’s not one half so beautiful as your 
sweet self 1” 

“ Ah, be off wid your blarney 1” laughed Nell. “ Ye’re more Irish 
than I thought ye.” 

“ Faith, you’ve got a heap of my failings to discover yet, Nell ; 
they’ll be pouring down on you soon, like last night’s rain. My 
word, how it did drive and pelt ! I see the river’s in heavy flood 
this morning. Some of the people in the cottages down there’ll be 
having a bad time, I fear.” 

“ Let us go and see theiti presently, when you have time. But I 


139 


suppose youMl be bard at work all the morning, Terence. When do 
you expect to be free from your consulting-room ?” 

“Why, you see, this is our first morning at home; and a man 
can t plunge head -foremost into hard labor without taking a deep 
breath or two first. Jack Syme will do the oakum-picking this 
morning. What’s the good of an assistant, if he doesn’t take the 
drudgery off one’s hand ?” 

Terence sighed a little at the mention of work, proceeding with 
his breakfast a shade more thoughtfully. 

“ I shouldn’t be surprised,” he continued, after a pause, “ if I have 
to take Jack into partnership pretty soon. It would save a deal of 
trouble in the end.” 

“ And would also diminish the profits a good deal, wouldn’t it, 
dear ?” 

“ What a mercenary little woman it is !” 

“ Why, yes ; and you know the reason, Terence.” 

Nell also became thoughtful ; and he was well aware of the drift 
of her thought. She was more than anxious about his debt — for so 
they both agreed to call it — to Simon, and was bent upon main- 
taining a course of rigid economy until it should have been paid 
in full. 

As for the proposed transference of this debt to Mrs. French- 
Chichester, Terence had heard no more about it, and never expected 
to do so now that he knew the widow better. He was troubled by 
this obligation to Simon, but not so deeply permeated by it as was 
Nell. To him repayment was an object on the horizon, to be kept 
in view in a general way, and attained some day or other ; to her, a 
goal to be striven for night and day. 

He was humbly conscious of being on a lower moral plane than 
his wife. He looked to her to stiffen up his character, to be toler- 
ant of his weaknesses, to lead him gently in the right way, the while 
she petted and idolized him. But Nell was yet very far from sharing 
these views. Her ideal was not to be shattered by a fortnight of 
marriage. She would have scoffed at the notion of his needing her 
help. He found it hard to work steadily — she knew that ; but the 
mere routine of his profession must naturally be irksome to so clever 
a man. His enthusiasm would doubtless be kept for great things ; 
in the small ones, perhaps, a commonplace woman like herself, with 
no particular talent in any direction, might be occasionally useful. 
That was Nell’s conception of the matter. 

“ Don’t you think,” she asked, when their meal was over, and she 


140 


was standing before the fire with her hand in her wedded lover’s, 
“that my father might help us in this trouble?” 

“Ask him, dear,” suggested Terence, with a twinkle in his eye. 
He had more than once had an opportunity of observing Mr. Tredeth- 
lyn’s aversion to parting with money — a weakness patent enough to 
every one but Nell. 

“ Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be quite fair?” she muttered, regret- 
fully. “ Yon know best.” 

“ Perhaps it wouldn’t be much use,” thought Terence; but he only 
pressed her hand. 

“Then we’must make up our minds to hard work and strict econ- 
omy. We sha’n’t spend nearly all you earn, shall we? And I sha’n’t 
want any new things for ever so long, Terence ; and we can easily do 
with only two servants. I suppose you must keep both horses?” 

“ Ye-es; there’ll be a long ride round the district every afternoon, 
don’t you see ? One horse would knock up in no time.” 

“Could you sell the hunter, and buy a cheap hack in his place?” 

“ Bless me !” thought Terence, “ she’ll be asking me to do the 
rounds on shanks’s mare, dressed in fustian, soon ! My dear child,” 
he said aloud, with a flicker of his humorous eyes, “ I must hunt in 
order to keep up the connection ; and for the same reason we must 
keep a parlor-maid in addition to the other two, and keep up appear- 
ances generallv.” 

“ I see.” 

“.Where are you off to now, Nellie?” 

“To order lunch and dinner and see to all sorts of things.” 

“ Well, then, I’ll go to that torture-chamber and get on the rack 
at once. Some fool or other with an imaginary ailment is sure to 
be waiting there to stretch me. Jack Syme shall be freed for the 
town work this morning.” He sighed deeply, but his wife promptly 
braced him up with a ravishing smile. “ Yes, by George ! I’ll go 
and work like any nigger! Haven’t I got the sweetest wife in 
Christendom to work for? Little girl, you always put me straight. 
I’d be a decent, hard-working man by now if I’d met ye years ago. 
Bedad ! my brain’s crackling with good resolutions now ; and don’t 
you believe what people tell you about such things going to pave the 
‘ other place.’ They’re like good grain, I maintain, with fine possi- 
bilities about ’em. You sow, and of course every grain doesn’t ger- 
minate ; but some do, and you get a crop of some sort, however bad 
the season.” 

And so they parted for the present. 


141 


Terence was right as to the flooded condition of Chilling Water. 
The vehement stream was ramping forth from its moorland gorge 
and down its rocky bed, with spume and fret and fury. Leaping 
into the cultivated parts above the town, it overspread Mr. Doidge’s 
meadows as though angered at the tamer scenery, and gurgled into 
the cottages of liis laborers in a masterful, regardless fashion suggest- 
ive of the great Ezekiel himself. 

Just below the town bridge the flerce river hurled itself in a gleam- 
ing curve over the artiflcial barrier created at this point in order to 
pen the water and press it into the mouth of the Hollacomb canal or 
leat. The water needed little persuasion in this direction now, but 
poured through the leat and flooded the vicarage garden knee-deep. 

About mid-day half Chillington was gathered near the bridge, 
watching the flood and enjoying the unusual excitement. 

“D’ye reckon,” asked one of another, “that the weir’ll hold out 
long agen thiccy ?” 

“ Like enough her won’t.” 

“ If her gives, ’twill relieve this mort o’ watter up over, and flood 
Mr. Secretan’s cottages down along worse nor they be a’ready.” 

“ So ’twould. And I tell ’ee what — ’twould run the canal dry, 
like enough.” 

“How so, mister?” This question was put by half a dozen peo- 
ple at once. 

“ Because, you zanies, this pule be eight foot deep along o’ the 
barrier, and if her gave, ’twould run down to two or three, and lay 
bare the mouth o’ the leat. Should have thought any vule could 
a-zeed that. I’ve knowed the thing ’appen one dry zumraer years 
agone, and the watter runned off and left leat channel dry as a gravel 
path.” 

“ I don’t believe it, gaffer,” laughed Dr. Clancy, from the fringe 
of the crowd. 

Then a dozen voices clanged, for or against, and so heady a wrangle 
ensued that Terence tucked his wife under his arm with a laugh and 
left them to settle it. 

The pair walked away down-stream together, bending to the buf- 
fets of a humming gale, enjoying the movement and briskness of 
things in general. On all sides of them were townsfolk hurrying to 
the water-side, the business of the place being for the nonce sus- 
pended. 

Nell was bent upon a brisk walk along the Bickington road, which 
followed the river for some distance, and which, as it rose the hill by 


142 


Hollacomb, would give them a 'good view of the pools and cascades 
overhung by the manor-house. 

Terence acquiesced in this route, but without enthusiasm. He 
was averse to following a road which passed almost within hail of 
Hollacomb Farm; not so much from actual apprehension of meeting 
with Mary, for he thought her to be still at Lymport, as from a gen- 
eral dislike of the farm’s neighborhood. 

To do him justice, however, it must be said that, having read 
none of her letters, he had no suspicion whatever of Mary’s being in 
great trouble. Ever since finally committing his heart to Nell’s care 
he had kept Mary completely outside his mental horizon. So much 
lie had achieved without difficulty, having the useful faculty, for 
which many would give half they possess, of thrusting all ordinary 
troubles into some dark cupboard of his mind and turning the key 
upon them. When he thought of her at all, his sanguine imagina- 
tion easily conceived her as ere long returning to the faithful Doidge, 
or some other old lover, and living happily ever afterwards. But it 
cost him a qualm or two to take Nell anywhere near the scene of 
that dead romance. 

Just below the town the Bickington road was raised above the 
low-lying meadows by an embankment, down to which ran the allot- 
ment gardens pertaining to Simon’s new row of cottages. Upon 
reaching this point Nell and Terence looked down upon a curious 
scene. 

The whole breadth of the gardens was converted into a muddy 
lake, scourged and flawed by the strong west wind ; the neat row of 
cottages stood waist-deep in water. 

Many persons had warned Secretan of such a possibility as this ; 
but his genial agent, Jackson, had recommended the site strongly — 
doubtless for reasons having roots in his breeches - pocket — and 
Simon’s fatal good-nature had been disastrous as usual. 

Simon himself had been working like a horse all the morning, su- 
perintending the removal of goods and furniture, and doing much 
of the work with his own strong arms. He was at this moment 
staggering through the flood with certain belongings of his tenant 
Mrs. Parminter, who inhabited one of the cottages at a nominal rent. 
This good woman was the wife of an honest bombardier, who, after 
serving his time, was glad to re-engage and rejoin his battery in India 
with a view to living out of tongue-range of the most gifted shrew 
in Chillington town. Simon had taken pity upon the deserted wife, 
and was now reaping the reward of his virtue, 


143 


Mrs. Parminter was, in fact, seated upon her garden wall, viciously 
drumming the stones with her heels, the while she poured the full 
weight of her abuse upon her benefactor. Mr. Secretan had built 
these sties of cottages on purpose to delude honest folk; his philan- 
thropy was nothing but accursed hypocrisy ; his kindness a sham 
and a lie ; he was a disgrace to the name of gentleman. Thanks to 
he she w'as a ruined woman ; thanks to he every one of her little uns 
would be down with fever, while she herself died of the chill and 
the misery, and so on and so on. 

Nell listened with a sick heart, a yearning to speak a word of 
friendship to Simon. She was very sore and sorry about him, and 
at the great barrier placed by circumstances between him and herself. 
Yet she could never say a word to him, never sympathize with him 
by a look. She was debarred from even speaking of what lay so 
near her heart, for Terence disliked the subject, was jealous of the 
reverence in which Nell held the discarded lover. 

Terence was chafing now at her mournful looks. He hurried her 
away quickly westward, and was moody and silent for the next 
half-mile. 

Just below Hollacomb the road, after leaving the river for a space, 
passed over a small knoll, upon climbing which they both uttered 
exclamations of astonishment. They had come in sight of the river 
again, and the first glance showed that there had been a sudden in- 
crease of the flood. 

“ Look !” cried Nell ; “ the water is much higher, and how it roars 
and foams ! The dam must have broken.” 

“ No doubt it has ; and now those wiseacres of the town, who are 
probably wrangling still, will have a chance of settling their dispute 
as to the canal. Shall we walk on towards Bickington ?” 

They moved briskly on, presently leaving the main road for deep, 
winding lanes. For an hour they trudged along without meeting a 
soul, then halted at a road-side inn near Bickington with a view to 
afternoon tea, for which Nell declared herself to be pining. The 
exercise, together with the resplendent mood of nature — for it was 
a keen, crisp winter afternoon — had given a brighter tinge to their 
reflections ; this comely young couple were hungry, happy, and ra- 
diant to look upon as they entered the inn parlor. 

“ Never have I a-zeed a prettier pair nor thiccy,” said the land- 
lord to his wife, when they adjourned to the kitchen together after 
taking Terence’s orders. 

Nell would never forget that picnic tea with her newly-made hiiJ}- 


144 


band. Such a briofht world seemed before them as thev rested in 
the snug little room — home and love, honest work and honorable 
endeavor; not a mere path through fairy-land to possible disillusion, 
but rather a homely workaday road, with hills to be breasted, dust 
to be borne ; with something to deepen and prove a man’s love, to 
give a fond wife the privilege of joyous self-sacrifice. 

Terence found his own mare, Rosalind, in the inn stable, Syme 
having driven over to a pressing case a short time since. Presently 
Jack Syme appeared from the direction of the village, and after a 
brief discussion of the new case, was taken iu-doors for a cup of tea. 

Mr. Syme, being little in the way of society, had never yet actu- 
ally spoken to Mrs. Clancy. Terence noted with pride how almost 
awe-struck with admiration the man was when first presented to his 
bride. Her sweet and winning manner, however, seemed to act 
upon Jack like a charm, and the more so since he had looked for 
the cold superiority with which the town and neighborhood were 
wont to treat him. He sat down — almost at ease, comparatively 
speaking — took his cup of tea from Nell’s small hand, and did his 
honest best to make himself agreeable. 

With people like Nell it is difficult to try to please without suc- 
ceeding, and Jack tried so hard that she was quick to conceive him 
one of the kindest and most good-natured of men. She had the 
knack of encouraging a man to talk about himself — a topic upon 
which a man must needs be eloquent if he have the gift of speech at 
all. At any rate Jack soon found himself discoursing of his old life 
at Bartholomew’s, of opera-bouffe and burlesque, farcical comedy 
and the ballet, of billiards and supper-parties; even of the litUe 
home at Hammersmith, of the old mother and the general servant, 
and their kindness to a rollicking scapegrace of a student like him- 
self. In a word, his heart and tongue warmed, as a man’s will under 
a woman’s gentle tact, until he began to think of revising his rather 
pessimistic views of the comfortable classes. He was grateful to 
Terence, too, for the lift in life provided by his good-nature, and not 
a little pleased at the utter rout of that old enemy, Simon Secretan. 

“ Look here, Terence,” this was Syme’s parting speech as he got 
into the dog-cart and gathered up his reins, “you’ve married the 
sweetest girl in Christendom, and the loveliest ; and, upon my soul, 
I think you deserve your luck. I hope you’ll be as happy as a king, 
old boy !” And so this idyllic little tea-party ended with a flourish 
of congratulation. 

By the time Nell and her husband had retraced their steps as far 


146 


as the knoll under Hollacomb, evening was approaching. As they 
halted a moment to look back towards the great hills and the sun- 
set, nature seemed to be spreading a pageant by way of raising 
further their uplifted hearts. Before them the sky was streaked 
and slashed with flaming orange ; behind them, suffused with tender 
rose and pearl and opal. Great cumulus clouds, like ranges of alps 
with shoulders rounded off, hung majestically over the moor to the 
south, massive and quiet, as though solemnly resting after stress and 
storm. Below them the river roared, hurling spray over gleaming 
bowlder and sodden bank, and plunging whitely into the gloom of 
darkling woods. 

“ All the color and beauty seem to affect me like organ music to- 
night,” murmured Nell, drawing close to Terence’s side. 

But he could not respond to her exaltation. The scenery of this 
Hollacomb gorge oppressed him. But a few months since he had 
gazed upon just such a flaming sky from an opening in the woods 
hard by, and heard much the same sentiment expressed in the tones 
of another woman who loved him. How patronizing he had been 
to Mary, how good-naturedly he had smiled at her little poetical 
outburst! Soon, perhaps, she would be back from Lymport, and 
sooner or later he must face her upbraiding eyes. Terence felt 
humble and low-spirited at this moment; with Nell beside him, his 
better self was apt to say harsh things. 

“Terence,” she said presently, pulling at his arm, “let us go home 
by the canal, for I’m anxious to see how the water has farec^” 

“ But, my dear child, your feet are wet already ; and the canal 
path will be sodden. We had better get home by the road, which 
saves a good quarter of an hour.” 

“ No, no ; I must see the canal. It is not ten minutes out of the way ; 
and you must give in, for it is such a pleasure to make you obey me 1” 

Nell laughed with a child’s glee as she pressed him canal-wards. 

Terence hesitated, but only for a moment. He was anxious to 
please her, and in the absence of Mary there was no real danger 
about the route. 

“ Lead on, then, ye persuasive little witch,” he cried. “ Sure I’ll 
follow ye to the other end of the world I” 

A short climb up a steep lane brought them onto the canal-path. 
Upon reaching it, they halted, struck with amazement. The proph- 
ecy of the old man at the town bridge was fulfilled: the water had 
run off, the bed of the canal lay bare to the sky, save for a sullen 
pool here and there. 

10 


146 


“I never could have believed it!” cried Nell, “especially with your 
opinion to back me.” 

“ Well, it’s a snub for me, and no mistake. But come, little girl, 
let us hurry home; it is dismal enough among these dripping trees.” 

They trudged on accordingly, the orange clouds burning away to 
chocolate and drab, the evening fog rising fast. They soon reached 
the ivied bridge below Hollacomb Farm, and Terence hastened his 
steps, anxious to put behind him this trysting-place with its atmos- 
phere of love-vows broken and passion grown cold. 

They had actually passed the bridge, when something prompted 
him to look back over his shoulder. In doing so, he stopped sud- 
denly; his face went ashen gray; a low, shuddering cry escaped 
him. 

“ What is it? Terence, dearest husband, you frighten me 1 . . . 
O God, help her ! How pitiful, how pitiful I” 

Nell’s heart stopped; for a moment she groped in the air for sup- 
port, while the horror and pathos of what she saw sank into her 
brain. For close to the gray old bridge, among broken brown reeds 
and trodden leaves and twigs and gravel left by the flood, lay a 
silent, pitiful thing that had once been a woman. Nell knew at 
once that she was dead, for the face was visible. Yet she called 
upon the flgure by its name, as though the lifeless clay could an- 
swer. I 

“ Mary, Mary !” she wailed. “ Oh, speak to me — Mary, poor 
Mary 

Yet, stricken as she was with pity and horror, Nell was too well 
accustomed to look on death, thanks to experiences among the poor, 
to lose control of herself for more than a moment or two. She 
stepped down the muddy bank; then >with trembling hands raised 
the poor head upon her knee, and put aside the dripping hair, while 
her tears fell fast upon the face that could never more feel caress of 
love nor warmth of human touch. 

“Oh, Terence, come and help me! I can’t bear her to lie here — 
poor, poor Mary !” 

But Terence could neither move nor speak. The sudden horror 
seemed to have frozen his faculties. He stood propped against an 
alder-trunk, rigidly staring at the pool under the old bridge. For 
the present thought could articulate but one word — “Suicide.” 

“ She must have fallen in somewhere near the farm and been car- 
ried down by khe flood,” murmured Nell, stroking the dead cheek 
reverently. 


147 


Terence made a strained effort to speak ; but one word would 
come from him. “ Suicide,” he muttered ; then sank down to the 
roots of the alder, reclining against the trunk. 

“ Never, never !” said Nell, earnestly. “ Why should you accuse 
poor Mary ? She was the happiest of girls, the last in the world 
to commit such a crime; it has been a sad accident — no more.” 

“Accident?” as he clutched at the word and repeated it, his voice 
came back to him. “ Yes, yes, you’re right, Nell, an accident. I 
never thought of that. I only knew her by sight, and thought per- 
haps — ” 

He hardly knew what he was saying. Instinct was urging him 
to lie ; but reason had not yet told him in what direction to begin. 

Nell was distressed for her husband. She knew him for a soft- 
hearted man — so much so, indeed, that the practice of his profession 
was often a torture to him — and here was another proof of the ten- 
derness of his nature. She urged him not to mind her, pointing 
out that some laborer on his way home would probably be passing 
soon. 

This suggestion roused Terence. He called upon his failing will, 
stiffened himself, and stood upright. Very soon the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps struck upon his ear, and seemed to put firm 
ground under him in a moment. Fear revived him like some magic 
elixir. 

The footsteps were those of Simon Secretan, who was at this mo- 
ment searching for Mary. Not a day had passed lately without his 
seeing her ; but her seeming quietness had allayed his first fears 
concerning her. Upon coming to the farm about an hour since, 
however, and learning from her father that she had not been home 
for some time, he had felt uneasy ; and when a careful search 
through her favorite haunts had failed to discover her, his uneasi- 
ness deepened into alarm. 

For a little incident had occurred the day before, which, without 
impressing him much at the time, seemed now to have a possibly 
terrible significance. 

Simon was watching the flooded canal with Mary, when a heavy 
billet of wood came floating past. 

“Now, I wonder,” said Mary, carelessly, “whether that log will 
be borne on into the Culmer, and finally carried far out to sea by 
the broad river?” 

“Probably it might. Why do you ask, Mary?” 

“Just from passing curiosity. It struck me that the log might 


148 


be so borne away, and the owner, searching for his lost property, 
might never know what had become of it. Probably no one will 
ever set eyes on it again, you think ?” 

“ I dare say not.” 

The incident, together with Mary’s words, took more and more 
hold of Simon’s mind as his search continued ; and his forebodings 
increased steadily until, by the time he reached the bridge, he had 
almost given up hope of finding her anywhere alive. 

Thus the scene on the canal-bank was but half a surprise to the 
searcher. He took it in at a single glance. Terence was standing 
under the alder, working himself up to face the coming intruder. 
Nell was still crouching under the bank with the dead girl across 
her knees. 

Simon’s look was strange and solemn as he stepped down beside 
her; but Nell was struck by the absence of amazement in it. His 
expression was rather that of one who finds a mournful expectation 
fulfilled than of one confronted by an unexpected tragedy. Not a 
word did he speak, but he took up Nell’s burden gently and bore it 
away to the farm. 

Terence’s slender hope had gone now ; Simon’s face had killed it. 

“ He knows all. He must have been in her confidence, and have 
expected this. Mary has betrayed me to Simon ; I’m utterly at his 
mercy ; he could ruin me by a single word.” 

Thus he mused while Nell stood watching Simon’s departing 
figure. 

“ Terence,” she said, after a pause, “ I feel so ill and shaken, and 
so chilled with sitting there in the wet, that I hardly know how I 
shall get home; and you look quite unhinged yourself, dear?” 

“ Unhinged ? My dear Nell, you must be bad indeed to talk such 
nonsense as that. Of course I was a trifle shaken at first — who 
wouldn’t be ? But that has all passed long ago ; feel how steady 
ray hand is. I wish you wouldn’t talk at random like that. How- 
ever, you’re not well, dear, and I ought .not to speak so crossly to 
you. Come on, little wife. I’m as steady as a rock, and will carry 
you the whole way home if necessary. But first you must try and 
walk off the chill — come, be quick, dear, for you look perfectly 
frozen, and need a fast walk to restore your circulation.” 


CHAPTER XX 


Some two weeks had passed, and Chillington was still seething 
with the tragic death of Mary Pethick. 

As to the cause of her death there was no room for serious doubt, 
no loop-hole for kind-hearted coroner’s jurymen to ease their feel- 
ings by such phrases as “ misadventure,” unsound mind,” or any- 
thing else of a softening description. When, after a prolonged 
sitting, they took their hats and sticks from the parlor -table at 
Hollacomb Farm and clattered out of the room, they had passed 
the only verdict possible in face of the evidence, medical and other, 
laid before them. It was the old, old story of wrong and shame, 
with the old miserable climax, and there was an end of it. 

Dr. Clancy and his wife had not been called upon to give ev- 
idence. Mrs. Clancy, indeed, was ill in bed, and unable to attend 
the inquest, and Simon Secretan was able to speak to the finding of 
the body, the position in which it lay, and other such details. 

Mr. Secretan came in for a good deal of blame in that, knowing the 
girl’s condition, and half-suspecting her to be contemplating suicide, 
he had taken no definite steps to prevent the catastrophe. He had 
always, however, possessed a special faculty for the accretion to 
himself of any blame that might be awaiting a pair of shoulders to 
settle upon. 

But the coroner’s verdict and subsequent funeral had not brought 
the subject to a natural close. Under ordinary circumstances the 
tide of public excitement would have turned at this point, ebbing 
gradually away in casual gossips, regretful reminiscences, and de- 
nunciation of the girl’s betrayer. In the present case, however, 
there was a special feature that served to keep public opinion al- 
most at fever pitch — viz., that the author of the mischief remained 
undiscovered. 

It seemed strange, even to the point of exasperation, that no one 
could put his finger upon the man for whom so much obloquy was 
ready and waiting. It was agreed that he must be a man of some 
position, as well as a specious rogue, for Mary never could bear to 
look at a common fellow. She had always held her head high ; in- 


160 


somuch that few w’ere surprised at her succumbing under the tort- 
ure of her coming shame. Many said harsh things of her, and the 
voice of uncharity is always pitched high ; hut there was also a 
strong current of sympathizing regret, of kindly excuse for the 
good-hearted girl, who had always been liked in spite of her airs 
and whims. Verily, should the culprit be discovered, he were in 
danger of rough handling ; indeed, the guilty unknown was never 
mentioned by the young men of Chillington without some hard 
cursing and promises of heavy punishments. Terence Clancy had 
to listen to a score of such tirades during a single morning’s 
rounds. 

It was a tribute to Ezekiel Doidge that not a soul ever mentioned 
his name — though his arrogance had made an enemy of every sec- 
ond man in the place — in connection with the mystery. As for Dr. 
Clancy, they would as soon have thought of charging him with the 
ill-doing as of indicting the vicar himself. No one had seen him 
even speak to Mary, so cautious and circumspect had the dread of 
Ezekiel always made him. 

Yet, after some days, the tongue of rumor began to busy itself — 
not openly, but in whispered conclaves behind parlor doors — with a 
name greater than that of Terence Clancy; one that ranked only sec- 
ond in importance, from the town’s point of view, to that of Lord 
Bridistow, the reigning peer of the district — with the name, in short, 
of the future Sir Simon Secretan. People were ashamed to speak in 
public against one of such blameless reputation and high position ; 
but ugly whispers and innuendoes were crawling like serpents up and 
down the by-lanes of Chillington. 

Terence knew that it was so, and the knowledge made his life a 
nightmare, while narrowing day by day the precipice-path which he 
seemed to be treading. 

Simon, who must surely now be a deadly enemy, knew of his guilt. 
The single glance this pnce-friend had thrown at him while lifting 
the dead girl from Nell’s knees was not to be misinterpreted. Yet, 
knowing the man as he did, Terence would have felt his secret al- 
most safe — having the conviction that Simon might think fit to pun- 
ish him in some private way, but would never betray him to profes- 
sional ruin — save only in one eventuality, the very one which seemed 
now drawing on ; to wit, the necessity of being compelled to clear 
his own character by pointing out the real offender. 

Nor did the probability of public disgrace and professional ruin 
make up the sum of Terence’s distraction at this time ; for behind 


161 


the fear of these lay a deeper one, that of a private avenger. There 
was Ezekiel Doidge to be reckoned with. 

“ I used to think he would do me some injury if he were even to 
catch me talking with Mary,” thought Terence; “ but now ! . . . Let 
him find out the truth now, and I believe from the bottom of my 
soul that he’ll murder me. I wish to God he was in the only place 
fit for him — a mad-house !” 

Finally, by way of last straw to Terence’s burden of anxiety, there 
was Nell’s serious illness. She had caught a dangerous chill while 
lingering by the canal that night, and the shock and strain to the 
ncM-ves had aggravated it. Upon reaching home she had been put to 
bed, and had remained there ever since, nursed by Terence and her 
sister Kate, in a low feverish condition which alarmed her husband 
not a little. 

Nor had Terence a single free hour wherein to sit down and fairly 
confront the tangled situation. Patients were pouring in upon the 
new doctor until he hardly knew which way to turn. He was over- 
worked, distracted, harassed almost beyond human endurance. The 
strain was telling heavily upon his health already. He wondered how 
much longer he would be able to stand up under the pressure of ac- 
cumulating trouble. 

At length, about the middle of the third week after the inquest, 
Terence felt that he could no longer bear up without a word of ad- 
vice or help from some human soul ; and, further, that he must either 
think out some plan of escape from the increasing danger of Simon’s 
being forced to expose him, or collapse altogether. It was not in his 
nature to fight a thing through unpropped — with the grim fortitude 
that a man whose ways are at all crooked finds the need of sooner or 
later. Tell out his troubles he must; and he had good hope of at 
least moderating Simon’s anger, if not of getting some help from 
him — could he but dare to face him. 

Coming home from his rounds that day, he found Nell worse than 
usual, and with temperature dangerously high. Kate attended to 
him, as she had done lately, with sisterly kindness. She insisted 
upon his sitting down to dinner, vowing that he was over-anxious 
about Nell’s state ; that she could remember her being in much the 
same low condition after a severe wetting on the moor some three 
or four years ago, and so on. Terence listened and was really grate- 
ful, but could eat nothing. He went up and sat with Nell for an 
hour, and was somewhat relieved when she at length dropped off into 
a quiet sleep. Then he stole from the room, ordered the least tired 


152 


of bis two horses, and told Kate he was in for a long moorland ride. 
She begged him to send Mr. Syrae. He said he had promised a pa- 
tient to ride over himself, and go he must. He had made ujd his 
mind to face Simon, to throw himself upon the mercy of the most 
generous man he knew. 

It was a relief to find himself in the saddle, with the prospect be- 
fore him of putting an end to torturing suspense. While dreading 
the meeting with Simon, his fear was laced with hope that some def- 
inite good would come of it — perhaps even the respite or breathing- 
space for which he craved. Were Simon a person of but fair aver- 
age magnanimity, the proposed appeal were but wasted breath. But 
Terence well knew the heart of the man who had been to him as a 
brother — was convinced that no appeal to Simon could be looked 
upon as a mere forlorn-hope. He had played the treacherous friend 
to him, yet hoped ; had requited his exceeding generosity by robbing 
him, yet still hoped. Perhaps this hope of Terence Clancy’s was as 
high a tribute as a man not yet much appreciated by his fellows 
could well have received. 

Yet the exaltation produced by the mere hope of a respite was a 
measure of Clancy’s wretchedness. His prospects were black and 
dreary as a winter’s night ; he was very near to despair. Even should 
the plan, now in his mind, of escape from the neighborhood succeed, 
there was nothing to be looked for but grinding poverty — his old 
state — to be faced not alone this time, but with a delicately nurtured 
wife beside him, with her respect for him perhaps undermined, the 
spring of her love dried up. Terence felt the power that lay in this 
very wretchedness. He would lay bare his heart to Simon — would 
borrow such eloquence from despair as had never come to him yet. 

As soon as he had cleared the town and topped the hill above the 
railway station he drove the spurs into Rosalind and galloped forward 
like a madman. 

“ Throw me head-foremost against the stone-wall, mavoiirneen !” 
he cried, leaning over the mare’s neck, “ and maybe ye’ll do me the 
greatest service in the power of horse or man. Break me neck, and 
the worry’d be over, dear; and sure ye’d finish off a worthless fellow 
who was born to ruin every pne that loves him !” 

Rosalind was presently pulled up, sweating and quivering, before 
the one ale-house owned by Monks Damerel hamlet. Terence turned 
in the saddle, uttering a long sigh of relief, when, upon raising his 
eves to the great moorland ridge on his right, he saw a light twin- 
kling. 


168 


“ My beacon-light,” he muttered, “ that points to my only harbor 
of refuge.” 

The light shone from Simon’s observatory, where, the night being 
moonless, with the winter stars throbbing brightly through the thin- 
nest of mist, Terence had counted upon finding him. Cheered by 
the fulfilment of this expectation, Terence now got rid of his horse 
and at once entered upon the steep climb that lay before him. 

The long, stiff ascent proved a more severe ta’sk than Terence had 
expected. The strain of much overwork and worry which he had 
lately undergone had so unfitted him for physical exertion that he 
toiled upward with great difficulty, and had several times to throw 
himself at full length upon the damp heather in order to recruit his 
forces. It took him a full hour to reach the level of the observatory, 
and, when he at length found himself tapping at the door, he was in 
a thoroughly exhausted condition. 

In fact, when Simon appeared, much amazed at receiving a visitor 
of any sort at hi/ solitary workshop, Terence was too evidently in a 
bad way for a humane man to think of anything but trying to assist 
him. 

“Come in and sit down, Terence, while I get you some brandy- 
and-water.” 

Simon never thought to address him so- familiarly, but the words 
came of their own accord. 

Terence turned his head aside, saying not a word. The kindness 
of Simon’s voice upset him , a harsher reception would have been 
more bracing, though less hopeful. 

Simon threw open a cupboard and quickly set a glass of brandy- 
and-water on the table beside his visitor ; but he, too, seemed unable 
to begin a conversation. It was a strange meeting. 

By way of giving the other a few minutes in which to recover 
himself, Simon then went and stood at the open door, looking down 
over the combe and the hamlet with its twinkling lights. 

When he closed the door and turned again into the room, Terence 
began to speak in a low voice, his head still averted, his hands fum- 
bling among the papers scattered on the table. 

“ You can guess that I’m pretty low, or I shouldn’t have come to 
force myself upon you thus. I’m not quite mean enough to wish to 
flaunt my happiness m your face — if I had any ; but, rather, I want 
to lay myself bare to you, to spread myself out before you. You’re 
bound to judge me hardly ; but— but will you hear my defence, such 
as it is ?” 


164 


Secretan had wished to see no more of the man who had requited 
him so ill, never to listen to his soft persuasive voice again ; but Ter- 
ence’s evident trouble and shame, his deliberate placing of himself as 
it were in the dock and appealing as prisoner to judge, wrought upon 
him strongly. He moved uneasily in his chair, then muttered : 

“Go on ; but don’t look upon me as your judge.” 

Terence raised his head, looked fully at the other, and spoke on, 
with his heart in his- voice : 

“Jack Syme first put it into my head to cut you out, to win Nell 
and her money. I scouted the notion. I swear to you I had no 
thought of treachery when you first introduced me to her and took 
me up to Moor Gates. I was so free from any thought of wronging 
you that I had no fear for myself. You took me up there day after 
day, and still I never suspected myself. I don’t know when the 
thought of love first came into my head ; it crept into me, stole upon 
me unawares, had fast hold of me before I dreamed of anything to 
be fought against. Then I tried to shake myself free. I denied you 
many times, as you’ll remember, when you wished to take me up 
there. But I was weak, and so drifted on and on ; and that fatal 
two weeks under the same roof with her were too much for me. The 
fever seized us both ; I was not hero enough to resist, as you would 
have done.” 

The speaker was desperately in earnest. Simon knew well that he 
was telling the* truth — at least, in so far as it is given a man to tell 
it when reviewing his own conduct and motives. 

“ As for Mary, you’ll think me a common libertine, who compassed 
her ruin and never gave her a thought afterwards. That’s what all 
Chillington will be saying of me soon. I don’t know a soul but 
yourself who, once I’m found out, would endure to let me mention 
her name or say a word in my own defence. Even yon can’t under- 
stand my we ikness; you never can conceive what a curse to a man 
this weakness is, how it scorches up every good intention like a 
fiame. You’re strong yourself; you want no props, nor woman’s 
comfortings when things go wrong with you. I’m made of poorer 
stuff, weaker stuff — baser stuff, if you will, than you, Simon. I 
fled to Mary for comfort in my trouble about Nell. Her flattery and 
admiration soothed a vain, weak fool like me. I thought to love her 
truly, to forget Nell in her, to make her my wife. I meant well and 
did badly, and now my punishment is but half begun. But believe 
one thing of me : I never knew how things were ; I never guessed 
her trouble ; I never suspected it till I saw her lying dead by the 


155 


canal, and wished myself dead beside her. Simon,” he continued, 
leaping to his feet and stretching out both hands with a passionate 
gesture, “ had I known all, I’d have gone back to her and made her 
my wife. I swear to you I’d have left Nell at the church door, aye, 
at the altar steps, rather than have brought shame and death on that 
poor girl !” 

Terence sank back into his chair, and bowed his head upon his 
hands; and Simon’s voice was unsteady. 

“ I believe you, old fellow ; you were always good-hearted enough. 
I’ve judged you too hardly.” 

“ O Grod, help me !” groaned Terence, miserably ; “ how shall I ever 
tell this to Nell ? When she knows that even while I was making 
love to her — Man, man, she’ll hardly endure me in her presence 
— my bride, my sweet wife ! I dread her scorn more than all the 
shame and ruin that are before me.” 

“ Surely ‘ ruin ’ is too strong a word. It seems to me that in this 
mean world a man’s vices tend rather to further his prospects than 
not. It is one’s efforts to do good, to help and elevate others, that 
damn one in the estimation of one’s neighbors. Look at me; there’s 
not a more unpopular man in the county. Had I been a jolly rake, 
with an oath and a pint of liquor for every one, they w’ould have 
liked me long ago. Why,” Simon added under his breath, “ with 
a few redeeming touches of the blackguard about me, I might have 
won her love, or even my father’s !” 

This bitter speech, so curiously unlike his former self, showed 
whither Simon’s solitary broodings were leading him. Terence was 
surprised to hear him, and shook his head decisively, saying : 

“ I see how it is. You’ve rushed from your old optimism into the 
opposite extreme, and both extremes are wrong. Among fast peo- 
ple, perhaps, in a great city, my errors might easily be forgiven ; but 
here, never. Once I’m found out, no one will dare to employ me in 
the face of public opinion. My only hope is to sell your gift, the 
practice, before the storm breaks, and begin the struggle again at the 
other end of the kingdom, or, better still, in America. Yet, wher- 
ever I go, there’ll be a black mark against me. My sun has set, Si- 
mon ; I can never hold up my head in the profession again. Mr. 
Tredethlyn will, I dare say, see that we don’t starve ; but that’s as 
much help as I ever expect from him. But listen,” he continued, in 
an anxious, husky voice, “ there’s only one man living that can help 
me— the one from whom I’ve the least right to hope for anything, 
yet the one from whom I hope everything — ’tis yourself, Simon !” 


166 


“ In the name of wonder, what can I dof’ 

“ Listen ! There’s a whisper going up and down Chillington that 
you are the guilty man.” 

Simon sprang from his chair, laughing loud and discordantly. 

“ What ! am I, then, in danger of becoming a popular character?” 
lie shouted. 

But Terence proceeded steadily, emphasizing each sentence with 
his hand. 

“This insane hypothesis of theirs, which must have arisen from 
your being seen with poor Mary, might keep them quiet for a few 
weeks — for long enough to permit of my agent in town getting 
something for the practice. Whereas, if the storm once broke, there 
would be no practice to sell ; any medical man might come down 
and sweep the whole district at his will without the necessity of 
spending a penny. Yet my appeal lies on far stronger grounds than 
this. You know that Nell is ill in bed, so weak and feverish as to 
cause me serious anxiety ? As it is, I fear for her life, Simon ; but 
what would be her state were the story of my wrong-doing to be 
suddenly flung in her face now ? I believe the shock would kill her 
outright. I’m certain that, even were she to survive it, her health 
would be shattered for many years. It drives me half mad to think 
how she will suffer. Oh, Simon, I have one death on my conscience 
already; for God’s sake, don’t let me have Nell’s, too! I’ve done 
ill, I deserve a heavy punishment, but must I lose her? Give me a 
week or two ; let me escape from this accursed place, and I’ll give 
my whole life to working and scheming for her happiness, and sooner 
or later, whenever my courage returns to me, I will kneel to her and 
confess the wrong I did, and love will teach her how to forgive me. 
Help me, for her sake, Simon 1 I only dare to ask it for her sake!” 

“ Man, man, you only bewilder me I What do you ask ?” 

Your silence — for a few days only — no more than that. Let 
the rumors against you run their course for a day or tw'o; take no 
step to vindicate yourself. Tell them the truth the moment I’m 
gone — not till then.” 

“ God’s truth, man ! would you have me silent if I’m accused out- 
right ?” 

“ For her sake — for her sake ! Only for a day — week.’^ After 
that, tell the worst of me. I’ll leave a confession in writing that 
will clear you at once and forever.” 

“ I’ll have nothing to do with such a cursed lie. I’ll never be a 
party to my own dishonor !” 


157 


Not a soul would dare to accuse you openly ; you have only to 
let the gossip-mongers mutter away for a few days. It is my only 
chance. But I see ’tis too much to ask of yon, Simon ; God knows 
I’ve no vestige of right to do so. I’m a poor miserable devil ruined 
by one false step ; with none to help, no refuge to turn to ; with 
nothing before me but public disgrace and the scorn of the woman 
I love. I’m too much of a wreck to be worth the trouble of res- 
cuing, least of all by the friend whom I have injured. It’s nothing 
that I meant no harm, that I’d have given my soul to save poor 
Mary, had I but known in time. I shall be posed before them 
all as a cold, deliberate, wicked libertine, who encouraged the girl 
to make an end of herself in order to get myself out of the difficul- 
ty. I shall be hooted and cursed out of the place. Nell will never 
bear to live under the same roof with me ; she’ll go home to her 
father. Well, well, ’tis no use keeping you here all night listening 
to my raving. Maybe I’ll drag on somehow, maybe I’ll muster cour- 
age to cut it short with a dose of poison. Anyhow, I’ll pester you 
no more. Give me another liquor, old fellow — ’tis the last request 
I’ll ever make of you.” 

Simon pushed over the decanter mechanically, then fell to strid- 
ing to and fro, muttering to himself, “A horrible idea! to sit down 
and let them tear my character to pieces! Yet what do I care for 
any one’s opinion? My father would suffer, were the evil report to 
get round to him. Yet, would he suffer? Wouldn’t it be rather a 
satisfaction to him to find me even baser than he had imagined ? 
I think it would pain Nell, yet not one-thousandth part as much as 
would the discovery of the true culprit. Not a soul here but would 
a dozen times rather hear ill of me than of popular Terence. And 
it would be something to save Nell from this blow. With my help, 
the hardest thing that could well befall her might be averted. Once 
safely out of this place, he would manage to keep it from her ; he 
has cunning enough for a shrewder task than that. Whom would 
it vex to hear of my fall? One or two would be sorry, the one or 
two who respect me, such as Frank Nelson, Bridistow, Julius Rush 

ah, and Kate. But she wouldn’t believe it. I think she’s the 

one living person that knows me well enough to say, ‘ ’Tis a lie !’ 
And, at the worst, the stigma could not rest upon me for many 
days.” And so this quixotic cynic went on brooding and arguing, 
seemingly unable to come to a decision either one way or the other. 

Terence had the wisdom to sit silent while the mental struggle 
progressed, for he knew that were Simon really minded to take this. 


168 


the most insane and reckless step of his lifetime, he would do so 
without further persuasion. And as the time went by the anxious 
watcher’s hope grew to a certainty. He might have to wait long, 
perhaps for many hours, but something told him that, by the time 
he was again in the saddle, his point would have been gained, and 
Simon’s promise given — the promise of one who had never learned 
to break his word. 




CHAPTER XXI 


Probably there is nothing in the whole universe, material or 
spiritual, of elasticity so miraculous as a sanguine man’s hope ; nor 
would a year’s search in a crowded land reveal a more naturally 
sanguine man than Terence Clancy. 

When he descended to breakfast next morning half his mental 
clouds were dispersed; the sly gleam was returning to his eye, the 
vivid 'Color to his cheek. 

“ I hardly know you this morning,” cried Kate, as he shook hands 
with her. “And certainly I needn’t ask after our patient?” 

“She’s better, Kate, much better; with pulse and temperature 
both approaching the normal. What a jolly bright morning it is, 
to be sure ! I’ll be riding round with a dry jacket to-day any- 
way.” 

He sat down to breakfast with a good appetite, and quickly in- 
oculated Kate with his good spirits. None so cheery and charming 
as Terence in a good mood ; none with a prettier knack of fore- 
stalling a woman’s wants, giving her an impression that he is really 
thinking of her as well as himself — a habit which differentiates a 
man from the rest of his sex, and invests him with the kind of at- 
traction that belongs to a white hare or a black swan. 

To Kate, accustomed to Mr. Tredethlyn’s digestive woes and bland 
indifference to the world outside his own w'aistcoat, her brother-in- 
law’s thoughtful little gallantries appealed strongly this morning. 
She was beginning reluctantly to admit that Nell’s infatuation for 
this man was not so blankly incomprehensible, after all. 

“As Nell is really better, I must send a line over to my father; 
and I shall ask him to pass on the good news to Simon, who will 
doubtless have heard of and been anxious about her illness.” 

So said Kate, who was well aware that Simon’s name was ta- 
booed at the White House, but who always made a point of ig- 
noring the whims and weaknesses of other people. She was 
now surprised, however, by Terence’s cordial acceptance of her 
proposition. 

“Certainly, certainly ; Simon should be told of our patient’s im- 


160 


provement. What a fine old fellow he is, old Simon ! I wish, Kate, 
I do wish,” he added, with feeling, “ that my happiness had been 
won at some enemy’s expense, instead of good old Simon’s.” 

It was the first time Kate had heard him speak in this strain, and 
it warmed her heart yet more towards Terence. 

He continued to speak kindly and admiringly of Simon, for it 
eased his conscience somewhat to do so ; to eulogize his benefactor 
seemed to lighten the burden of his obligation in some measure. 
What did he not owe to this good friend ? Simon had last night 
given his word to be silent for a month — one whole month. In four 
weeks a dozen opportunities might arise. The hue-and-cry might 
die out ere long in the ordinary course of things, and meanwhile its 
energy would be expended in a wrong direction. 

Terence recalled with comfort the story of Alcibiades and his dog. 
How the astute Greek had cut his favorite animal’s tail, to the end 
that his enemies, having a small thing to fasten upon, might fail to 
notice large ones. Chillington, he thought, in hot pursuit of Simon 
Secretan, would never dream of thinking about himself. They had 
not merely a small thing to occupy their eager tongues, but a stately 
quarry to hunt down. As to whether the quarry might suffer in the 
chase, why, that was an awkward question. But — but Simon was 
known for a very proud man ; doubtless he would keep aloof and 
scorn backbiters. And again, the hue-and-cry could not possibly 
last long. Some other scandal would certainly crop up in due course; 
in fine, Terence had serious hopes that he would, after all, be able to 
retain his practice and his position, and continue to show a bold front 
to the world. 

Yet there was one dark cloud yet undispersed — the dread of Eze- 
kiel Doidge. Terence felt that this man would now become little 
better than a monomaniac ; that his one object in life would be to 
find out and bitterly punish his sweetheart’s betrayer. That he was 
seemingly quiet now, going about his business as usual, keeping his 
schemes, if he had any, to himself, rather added to Terence’s alarm. 
Doidge was the one person he really feared, the only one who would 
persist when public opinion had cooled down, and ceased to trouble 
itself about a victim. 

The question of how to hoodwink this dangerous foe was occupy- 
ing Terence as he strolled to and fro under his veranda after break- 
fast, when a maid approached him with this message: 

“There’s some one a-waitin’ for you in the consultin’-room, sir— 
Mr. Doidge, from Chillington mill.” 


161 


In a moment a fresh brood of fears swept down upon Terence and 
staggered him. 

“Let him take a seat, and I will come immediately.” He got 
these few words out with difficulty. 

The maid noticed his pallid looks, but put them down to anxiety 
about her mistress. She and the cook had been but three days in 
the house, yet both were already under the spell of Terence’s fasci- 
nation. It was his lot to be loved almost at sight by men, women, 
and children alike. 

The moment Jane disappeared, Terence entered by the French 
window, and sat down in the breakfast - room to recover himself. 
But his sickness of heart resisted all argument. He was in deadly 
fear. He could not persuade himself but that Doidge had come to 
denounce him — or worse. 

Finding that delay only helped to unman him, he went palpitating 
down the stairs, and hovered palpitating outside the consulting-room 
door. 

“ He may have chanced upon some clew,” his white lips muttered. 
“ He may be violent — he may kill me before I can summon help. I 
will never face him unarmed again, if — if I but come safely off this 
time.” 

At that moment Jack Symes’s noisy whistle came down the pas- 
sage from the surgery, and Terence could have asked no sweeter 
music. It nerved him to turn the handle and face his enemy. 

Doidge’s friendly greeting brought such a revulsion of feeling 
that Terence’s brain whirled. At first he could hardly tell what the 
man said or how he looked. 

“ Lord bless me, sir, I reckon you’re as much in want of medicine 
as I be !” 

“ I’ve been overworked lately, Mr. Doidge, and have had little 
sleep ; and my wife’s illness has made me anxious.” 

“ I hope she’m better, doctor.” 

“ Thanks, yes ; Mrs. Clancy is much better this morning.” 

“ That’s well ; us ’d be terrible sorry if she was to be laid up for 
long.” 

“You are very good. But about yourself — you’ve come to con- 
sult me?” 

Terence could now venture upon a good look at his patient ; he 
liked what he saw but little. 

Doidge had the strained look that speaks to “ the perilous stuff 
that weighs upon the heart,” His pale face was a little flushed, his 
11 


162 


cheeks deeply sunken; his eyes looked strange, with a gleam of dry, 
fierce triumph in them, a kind of haggard joy, as of a worn-out man 
who draws near to a wished-for goal. 

The doctor quickly gathered that the man’s nervous system was 
thoroughly unhinged, and his mind in much the same condition. 
While examining him physically, he held his patient in conversation 
without difficulty ; indeed, poor Doidge was too much excited to 
support silence, had it been desired. 

His talk was chiefly of the gathering to be held in the town-hall 
next evening for the purpose of inaugurating the new cricket club. 
From that subject he seemed unable to disentangle his mind for a 
moment. 

This concentration of his thoughts upon a subject that could 
hardly possess much innate interest for him — seeing that his offer 
of a piece of meadow-land had some time since been refused by the 
embryo club in favor of Mr. Secretan’s proffered site, and that the 
club was in fact a creation of Simon’s — was somewhat strange. It 
might have alarmed Terence, had not his thoughts for the present 
been strongly drawn in another direction. But for the moment he 
was all medical man ; there were points in this patient’s physical 
condition that puzzled him. Allowing for the man’s morbid mental 
state, for the severe emotional strain lately put upon him, for some 
constitutional weakness easily discernible, there remained an unac- 
countable something, a dark corner in which Terence’s subtle mind 
was at present blindly groping. 

From student days Clancy had always shown a marked talent for 
diagnosis. A famous physician, under whom he had been fortunate 
enough to serve at St. Bartholomew’s, had once said to him : “ As 
far as talent goes, you have the promise of a career before yon. 
You possess a rare faculty of sound analysis, combined with keen 
intuitive perception — the man’s gift wedded to the woman’s. But, 
remember, talent without character is a haftless blade ; stiffen your 
character, youngster; brace your will to face the first ten years of 
drudgery, and you’ll one day be a great physician.” 

Terence’s double talent was hard at work now. Intuition had 
leaped at something, and was now waiting for analysis to prove foot 
by foot the ground which had been cleared at a bound. 

“You’re a hard-exercise man, I believe, Mr. Doidge?” asked the 
doctor, in a conversational way, as he withdrew the stethoscope. 
“ Do you over exert yourself sometimes ?” 

“ Are you talking of exercise ? Well, yes. I’m not exactly a loafer. 


163 


But I haven’t had my strength for some time ; can’t throw the sacks 
about and shame the lazy hounds o’ mine as I used sometimes.” 

I wouldn’t overtask myself, if I were you. You’re a bit out of 
sorts just now — nerves out of order, and that sort of thing. You 
should rest and avoid all excitement for a week or two. I’ll send 
you a nerve sedative, and other medicine to follow.” 

“ Pshaw ! as if I didn’t know all that !” cried Doidge, rudely. “ The 
very thing I’ve come here for is to be wound up for to-morrow even- 
ing. I want to sleep to-night for an hour or two, just for a change, 
and get tit for — what I have to do.” 

Clancy’s mind swung back suddenly from far-reaching vistas of 
speculation to the plain hard ground of personal interest and safety. 
His fears were alert again in a moment. What did this man mean 
by his — “ what I have to do ?” 

“ Give me something to screw me up,” cried the patient, in a per- 
emptory tone. “ I’m all of a shake, and there’s a stiff job before 
m*e.” 

“ Drop it, whatsoever it be ; you’re not fit for any excitement.” 

“ I will be fit ; if you can’t give me a screw-up, damme. I’ll go to 
another doctor !” 

“ Go where you please, my good fellow ; every honest doctor 
would give you a similar warning.” 

“You’m right, sir; you’m right. I’m all unhinged - like ; you 
mustn’t heed what I say. Will you give me a sleeping-draught o’ 
some sort? I must sleep to-night, for I’m bound to be present at the 
cricket meetin’. My heart’s set on that, for there’s work for me to 
do. More than that I won’t say at present — and I reckon you’ll be 
in the hall yourself, doctor ? The whole place ’ll be there, you see, 
and pretty nigh the whole neighborhood, too, from* Lord Bridistow 
down to the smallest farmer. They say this will be the crack club 
o’ the county, and perhaps give a big lift to county cricket. Yes, 
the whole district will be gathered in our town-hall to-morrow night, 
mister — and I’ll be among them, if I have to be carried there on a 
shutter !” 

This speech sounded a fresh clang of alarm for Terence. Was it, 
then, just as he had feared ? Was this wretched man actually brew- 
ing some scheme of vengeance, hugging it close, so as to hit the 
harder when he did speak ? Clancy was absolutely in the dark as 
to what clew, or fancied clew, the crazy fellow possessed ; he might 
turn and rend any one. It was only clear that be was upon a wrong 
scent at present. 


164 


After some further desultory conversation, Doidge left the house 
abruptly, jumped into his high -wheeled gig, and drove furiously 
away. From the west window of his consulting- room Terence 
watched him rattle down the steep hill to the town at breakneck 
speed. 

“No hope of that,” muttered the watcher, with dry lips. “No 
hope of his coming to smash, I suppose ? Fate will be careful to 
preserve him as an instrument of torture for a poor devil like me, 
who never gets a chance of going straight!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


The town-hall of Cbillington was an ancient granite structure 
supported upon arches, having on one side of it the market-place, 
on the other a oroad open space of gravel. As you came down the 
steep hill leading from the railway station, and paused on the bridge 
for a patronizing glance at the little town, the old hall made a good 
note in the picture, being well in accord, as regards size, style, and 
color, with its surroundings. A stranger of moderate enthusiasm 
might quite well venture to pronounce it “ respectable,” and the 
townsfolk would be much chagrined at so lukewarm a verdict. 

The uses and functions of the building were manifold. It would 
serve as a concert-room for the Amateur Musical Society one night, 
for a religious gathering the next; for a public sale in the after- 
noon, a private ball in the evening. Every one with any preten- 
sions to be a public character had stumbled through a few halting 
sentences in the big room over the pillars; indeed, its stage had 
been trodden by the shivering amateurs, musical, dramatic, and 
other, of several generations. Of the well-known voices uplifted 
from time to time in the town-hall, none was more popular with an 
audience than Mr. Tredethlyn’s. Standing upon this familiar plat- 
form, with a Cbillington gathering spread out before him in one 
broad smile, the squire-parson was at his best. He was trammelled 
neither by Mr. Secretan’s intensity, nor the vicar’s nervousness, nor 
Lord Bridistow’s dearth of words; so that every one used to go 
away the more cheerful for his sly jokes and genial home-thrusts, 
that gave each in turn the laugh over his neighbor. And the excite- 
ment of public speaking always had a good effect upon his liver. 

Mr. Tredethlyn, as it happened, was to be the principal speaker at 
the cricket meeting mentioned in the last chapter. He was to pub- 
licly accept, on behalf of the committee, Secretan’s gift of a cricket- 
ground; gracefully thank Mr. Doidge for his equally kind offer, 
with a neat side glance or two at the fine public spirit so often ex- 
hibited by him ; and afterwards to praise and thank every one who 
expected it — that is to say, every one who had moved hand, foot, or 
tongue in the interests of the embryo club. A man needs a good 


166 


deal of simplicity, or good -nature, or hypocrisy — or perhaps all 
three in combination — to spread individual praise in this lavish man- 
ner, while at the same time tickling the vanity of an entire audience, 
and keeping up his own dignity ; but our parson was quite equal to 
the task assigned him by the universal voice of the district. 

To suit this important occasion the hall had been arranged in a 
special fashion. As the gathering was to be of a friendly rather than 
formal character, and as it was thought advisable to allow a certain 
amount of free discussion among the audience, the chairman was 
placed, together with his green baize table and bell, about the 
centre of one side of the long room ; while the platform was left un- 
occupied — an arrangement which put every man on the same level, 
and tended to promote good-fellowship. 

On the chairman’s right and left were seated Lord Bridistow, the 
vicar, Mr. Secretan, and half a dozen other members of the com- 
mittee ; before him was another green table ringed with newspaper 
reporters, while the remainder of the room was packed with the 
densest throng that had ever been squeezed into the place; for 
farm-carts, gigs, and carriages of every description had been stream- 
ing ipto the town for so many hours, that by this time quite a large 
area of country must have drained itself into Chillington town. 

In fact, the inauguration of this new club was an event of prodig- 
ious importance, owing partly to the great prowess this year of the 
county eleven, to which the town furnished a brace of crack bowl- 
ers, and the consequent spread of cricketing fervor. Even the ladies 
had been bitten by the prevailing mania, and clusters of them were 
now hanging over the flag-trimmed front of the gallery. They had 
covered the unoccupied platform with flowers, and caused the walls 
to bloom with such a crop of mottoes, devices, and decorations as 
the emotional condition of the neighborhood seemed to demand. 
Had the conventional intelligent foreigner been among them as they 
gazed upon the thickening throng beneath, he would doubtless have 
assumed that some question of vast national importance was about 
to be broached. 

When Mr. Tredethlyn’s figure rose to its height, and his comely 
face beamed a welcome to this great audience, the buzzing mur- 
murs ceased. No need for any tapping upon tables or appeals for 
silence, for every man felt that he was about to hear just what he 
would have said himself — had he possessed the knack of speaking. 

Kate Tredethlyn, looking down at her father — she had left Nell 
in charge of a friend at her earnest entreaty — felt proud of him as 


167 


the smooth, strong current of his speech began to flow. His 
periods had the ease and quietude of perfect self-confidence, his grip 
of his hearers was both immediate and firm. When he ceased they 
all felt that the proceedings had opened perfectly, the right note 
had been struck. There was warm applause. 

As the chairman had encouraged free discussion of one or two 
moot points, there then followed a desultory debate, with fragmen- 
tary speeches put forth here and there by mumbling old men or 
stammering young gentlemen. 

When this had progressed for some time without much advance- 
ment of business. Lord Bridistow rose on the chairman’s right hand, 
and plunged with characteristic abruptness into speaking. 

His lordship was a square, bluff, ruddy-faced man, much respect- 
ed not only as the chief magnate of the neighborhood, but as a prac- 
tical common-sense landlord who lived on his estate, and managed it 
better than most men. He never pampered his tenants into discon- 
tent, as Simon had done long ago, and irretrievably ; nor fell into 
an opposite extreme of severity. There was much sound judgment 
about Lord Bridistow, though no living soul had ever called him 
clever. Indeed, he exhibited so few intellectual symptoms that 
Mrs. French-Chichestcr — who was nevertheless well-pleased to have 
him as an ornament to her drawing-room as often as might be — 
used to say that the taking of his pass degree at Oxford had ex- 
hausted his brain forever. 

“The soil of his mind !” she would exclaim, when people praised 
his farming, need never trouble him much ; it brought forth just 
once — but there’ll be no rotation of crops there^ anyway.” 

“ l!lr. Chairman, and gentlemen,” began his lordship — “ and, per- 
haps I might add, ladies — only the latter can hardly be said to be 
among us just now; in fact, are quite above our heads, as they’re 
apt to be on most occasions.” (Here there was a loud roar from 
the crowd, with whom a small joke went a long way.) “Your elo- 
quent chairman has just put everything before you in such a — er — 
what-d’ye-call-’em manner that there isn’t much left for me to say. 
But, judging from your enthusiasm to-night, I should imagine the 
club has a long life before it. You all know what laurels our noble 
county has been plucking — er — I mean reaping — this last season, 
and I think we’re mighty proud of our little contribution to the team 
— our two bowlers.” (Tremendous cheering here.) “ There’s Dick 
Yelverton, now, has covered us with glory.” (Here Yelverton, a 
sheepish young fellow seated in the front row, was suffused with 


168 


blushes, and searched the floor for an opening to dive through.) 
“I’m bound to praise his skill myself; for when he bowled to me 
at a net last summer, he took my wicket three times in five balls — 
and that in my own park, too ; his break from the leg broke me 
altogether.” 

Lord Bridistow stopped to chuckle here ; he liked this joke even 
better than the other, and felt that he had justified his cordial re- 
ception. 

“However, I’m getting outside of my brief just now, and must 
return to business. What I should be speaking of is the captaincy 
of the new club. You’ve chosen your committee, decided how often 
they are to meet — capital fun it is, mapping out other people’s tasks, 
eh ? — settled the conditions of membership, and all that ; but as yet 
there has been no mention made of your captain — ” 

“Yourself, my lord! Us would like ’ee for captain right well!” 
cried several ardent spirits from different parts of the room. 

“ Myself ? — no ; couldn’t be done, my good fellows ; couldn’t be 
done at any price. I live too far off; and there’s my own village 
club to be looked after. I’ll name the right man for you in a min- 
ute — but of course I’m doing everything topsy-turvy. We haven’t 
even formally accepted Mr. Secretan’s offer of a cricket-ground yet ; 
but, as we all have sense enough to accept a present when it falls in 
our way, that’s soon done. Mr. Chairman, shall we have a show of 
hands?” 

Mr. Tredethlyn rose again. 

“ All you who agree to accept Mr. Secretan’s offer hold up your 
hands.” 

The room forthwith sprouted with uplifted arms and hand«, but 
there was no attempt at a cheer — not a voice was raised in friendli- 
ness or gratitude. 

Lord Bridistow, still on his feet, looked uncomfortable and hesi- 
tated. He had expected, as a matter of course, some enthusiasm at 
this point, something to give promise of a cordial vote of thanks, such 
as he was now about to move. It had not occurred to him that a 
good fellow like Secretan, for whom he himself had a great liking 
and respect, and with whose efforts for the public weal he had al- 
ways been in sympathy, could be other than popular. Nor, indeed, 
was it in his power to comprehend that inscrutable phenomenon, 
popularity — a receipt for whose production is upon every man’s lips, 
but within hardly any man’s knowledge. 

It was not the viscount’s habit, however, to shirk a duty, pleas- 


169 


ant or the contrary; and his temper was somewhat ruffled at the 
marked ingratitude of Chillington, He proceeded in a voice some- 
what firmer and louder than before : 

“ I think, gentlemen, we may be apt to take this gift of a good- 
sized piece of land too much as a matter of course. I, for one, feel 
on behalf of the town and district particularly grateful for Mr. Sec- 
retan’s generous present. I have a great admiration for his public 
spirit. I’ve known him as a friend for some years, and he’s about 
the only man of my acquaintance who does honestly care about the 
good of other people. The rest of us get beyond number one when 
duty calls pretty loud ; never without that summons — and always 
with the expectation of a good, solid return of praise and thanks. 
If we get no real gratitude, by Jove, we thump and hammer till peo- 
ple pretend a little ! That’s what I do. Virtue may be its own 
reward, but that’s not good enough for me. Well, now, before mov- 
ing a cordial vote of thanks to Mr. Secretan, I’m going first to pro- 
pose him as the most fit, proper, and efficient captain the Chillington 
Cricket Club could possibly possess — and may we prevail upon him 
to accept the post !” 

At this point Simon rose and coldly asked to be allowed to say a 
few words. Kate, looking down anxiously from the gallery, knew 
well what their tenor would be. She understood this proud-humble 
gentleman better than any one in that crowded room ; perhaps she 
was the only person who understood him at all. Simon would dep- 
recate any thanks for his trifling gift, and flatly refuse the honor of 
the captaincy. 

But Simon was not destined to make even this brief speech ; for 
as he stood looking somewhat haughtily over the heads of his audi- 
ence, some one on his right also arose, and making his way along 
the front of the crowd, took up a position beside the reporter’s ta- 
ble. It was Ezekiel Doidge. 

There was a profound hush in the large hall, for, though the 
townsfolk were well accustomed to seeing Doidge constantly on his 
legs at Local Board meetings and the like, objecting, interfering, 
browbeating everybody, it was felt that something strange was about 
to happen now ; nor could any fail to perceive that the pale stern 
man who leaned upon the long table was striving to master some 
stronger passion than any question of this evening could possibly 
have aroused. 

Kate Tredethlyn and several other ladies, wondering at the oppres- 
sive silence that had befallen the assembly, craned their necks nerv- 


1^0 


ously over the front of the gallery. The chairman and his imme- 
diate neighbors drew their heads together, asking each other in 
whispers what this peculiar silence might mean. Secretan, after a 
casual glance at Doidge, reseated himself with the indifferent air of 
one who cares little about the proceedings one way or the other. 
Then Doidge’s low voice fell hot and quivering upon the silence. 

“I suppose I ought to apologize for troubling this large gathering 
with a personal matter; yet you’ll presently see that ’tis a public 
matter, too, and let no man hinder me, for what I have to say I will 
say. I’m goin’ to speak o’ her that was my betrothed wife. But, 
understand me, I’m not here to stir you up about her sad fate, but 
only to set before you, as fair as I can, what I know about it, what I 
haven’t yet whispered to a livin’ soul. I’ve kept the secret until 
this moment because I think my accusation should be set forth in 
public, answered in public — if any answer there be. I shall make 
no statement that I wouldn’t repeat on oath afore a court o’ justice; 
and as the law o’ the land cares naught for the crime that I’m goin’ 
to speak of, I look upon you, my fellow-townsmen and neighbors, 
as constitutin’ the only available tribunal. I shall bear myself afore 
you as afore a real court, solemnly conscious o’ the weight o’ the 
accusation I bring.” 

The speaker paused for a moment, for self-control grew more 
difficult as he felt the heart of the large audience beginning to beat 
with his own. He had spoken slowly, with the strained delibera- 
tion of a strong-willed man mastering strong passion, but the heart- 
flame which underlay his quiet words was spreading through his 
listeners. Every pair of eyes was glued to the pale working face of 
the man who seemed to be looking beyond them. 

“ When it was first borne in upon me,” Ezekiel resumed in a 
voice even lower than before, but which reached all ears, “ that she 
wished to be free, I suspected that some gentleman had been tam- 
perin’ with my girl. She — the woman I loved — was true and loyal 
by natnr’ ; only the subtle flattery of some one above her — with a 
kind o’ claim in her eyes to be as her conscience, to know* right an’ 
wrong better than herself, could have wore away her faithfulness. 
I felt that. I knew as no light temptation could have twisted her 
so, and I taxed her wi’ the name o’ the only gentleman that she ever 
saw much of, and she admitted havin’ a weakness towards him. 
She let me believe — and she always spoke true, always true — as this 
gentleman had won her heart from me. An’ T freed her ; resolvin’ 
to watch over and guard her from the danger that I saw ahead. 


But I failed in the duty I had set myself. Mayhap, a more vigilant 
guardian might have saved her from ruin ; hut there was no mother 
to watch over her, only a jealous fool — a self-confident jealous fool, 
who neglected even to warn her father and friends. Well, when 
she went off to Lymport on a visit, away from home and danger, I 
breathed free again ; but she only answered one o’ my letters — and 
that answer scared me. 

“ I was gettin’ so anxious that, on her return from Lymport, I 
followed- Mary and saw him meet her by the canal bridge below 
Hollacomb Farm. . . . Happen you’ll say that I jumped at his guilt 
too soon, but presently I’m goin’ to read you his condemnation writ 
in her own hand. . . . I’ll hurry over what remains to be said. 
How did I come to be possessed of the letter? I’ll tell you that — 
then read it if I can. After that interview by the canal I scarce left 
her unwatched an hour; I was always prowlin’ about the woods 
near the farm — and he met her most every day. I covered him 
with my gun once and again — and God knows why I didn’t draw 
trigger. . . . Well, on the morning o’ the big flood I was called 
away up-stream to save some drownin’ cattle, and overdid myself 
over the job, so that I had to bide quiet at home, and couldn’t get to 
use my legs again till the evenin’. Then, by the time I had got half- 
way down to my usual beat in the Hollacomb woods, young Bob 
Pethick — that’s Mary’^ cousin, who used mostly to run her mes- 
sages for her — met me with this letter. He had been in my pay 
since her return, and was under orders to bring me at once every 
scrap of writin’ that she might intrust to him. Two or three times 
he had been to my place with the note, and each time found me out. 
It was directed to him — and — and here it is in my hand now. . . .” 

A deep thrill passed through the crowd as Doidge tried to steady 
the fluttering hand which held the paper. The severe strain under 
which he was laboring oppressed them strangely ; but his will still 
lield good, his voice was still steady enough to be heard throughout 
the hall as he read : 

“ I thought and hoped never to forgive you — but I could not live 
hating you. To make excuses for you was my only comfort ; and 
once I gave way to that, allowed myself to think that only Fate had 
parted us, and that you sometimes grievtd for me, I could live over 
again the happy time when you loved me. But, my love, my love, 
I can bear it no longer — I cannot face what is now before me. I 
liave no strength left to bear it, and so I send you these last words 


— and with them my forgiveness. The kind old canal — my old, old 
friend — will bear me away to the river, and the river to the sea, and 
none will know my true story. My father and aunts will be spared 
that, and poor Ezekiel, too. I think it would half kill him to know 
the worst of me ; and he would be a dangerous enemy to you. But 
have no fears. I have destroyed every scrap of your hand-writing, 
every trifle that could compromise you ; and, lastly, I have so ar- 
ranged things that my death will seem an accident. My lost love, 
there will be no breath upon your dear name — it will never be cou- 
pled with mine, for none can read what is only written upon my 
heart. Farewell, my love, my dear love ! Grieve for me a little — 
oh, let me think you will grieve for me a little !” 

Ezekiel’s voice was harsh and broken for the last few sentences, 
and he clung to the table for support. Then he straightened him- 
self suddenly and turned upon Secretan, crying, with a snarl like a 
savage beast’s, “ Take your letter — it is yours T ' — and fell senseless 
upon the floor. 

Many had expected to see him fall, it being obvious that the man 
was laboring with a task beyond his strength. He was lifted and 
carried into the air without a moment’s delay. The throng turned 
towards him but for a moment as he was carried past, their mental 
faculties being concentrated upon the gentleman whose arraignment 
had thus passed suddenly from the stage of whispering in back streets 
to open denouncement before a public assembly. 

“ Now, Simon — now !” whispered Kate Tredethlyn between her 
clinched teeth. “ Now stand up and throw back this miserable lie 
in their faces. Quick — quick ! Some of them believe it !” 

She uttered a sigh of relief as Simon sprang to his feet, with the 
words she looked for written clear on his face. He seemed to have 
been stunned for a moment, but now uprose, his whole figure dilating 
with the hot wrath of an honorable man falsely accused. Kate panted 
with anxiety when his hand went out as though to make way for 
burning words to follow. The next moment she was faint and sick 
with disappointment. 

Simon’s eyes, challenging his audience as though daring some one 
to meet them, lighted upon another pair of eyes, full of piteous ap- 
peal, and a white, drawn fye upturned to his — the face of the man 
who had but the other night won his promise of silence. It was the 
direst moment of Simon’s life. He might live to ten times man’s 
allotted span and never know such another. The remembrance of 


178 


the promise went through him like a rod of white-kot iron. He 
could not break it; it was not in him to break his word solemnly 
plighted. He was scorched, burned up with shame, but forced by the 
bitter strength of his honor to stand dumbly staring, as the murmurs 
around him grew to jeers, and angry scorn leaped into all faces. 

“ Speak, old fellowj for God’s sake, and silence them !” cried Lord 
Bridistow’s voice behind him. 

But not a word came. Simon stood rigidly facing the storm of 
denunciation, with ghastly looks that seemed an admission of his 
guilt. 

Jack Syme, leaving Doidge in charge of another doctor, re-entered 
the room at this moment, and took in the situation with a gloating 
eye. So com-plete a triumph over his enemy as this was far above 
the level of his expectation. 

Gentlemen,” he cried, in a strong, firm voice edged with sar- 
casm, “your intended captain appears to have no answer to make to 
this accusation. Perhaps he is too proud to speak — too superior to 
the common herd of us to care about vindicating himself. If so, I 
believe I shall only give voice to the general sense of this great as- 
sembly if I ask him to step down to our level for a moment and 
speak his mind. He is accused not only of wronging this girl, but 
of egging her on to make away with herself in order to screen him, 
or, at any rate, of taking no steps to prevent such a climax. I 
shouldn’t myself care to keep silence under this double indictment ; 
and I think even a gentleman in his high position might condescend 
to a word or two of explanation. From a man who poses not only 
as a public benefactor, but as a mender of public morals, we as- 
suredly have a right to expect something better than haughty silence.” 

This brief speech was received with loud applause. There was a 
closing in upon the spot where Simon stood, and not a few threaten- 
ing gestures from those near him. 

The threats and upraised hands energized Simon in a moment. 
He struck his fist upon the table in a spasm of fury, crying aloud : 

“ I have nothing to say. Take that for an answer, you curs — you 
curs ! Make way for me there !” 

They fell back from him right and left as he strode to the door ; 
and not until his eyes were ofE them did the storm of hisses and 
jeers break forth again. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The proceedings at the town -hall that night made a deep and 
lasting impression upon Simon. The obloquy he had undergone 
submerged his mind in bitterness until all its qualities save one were 
obliterated, like the details of a flooded landscape. There seemed 
to be nothing of him left standing but his pride. He felt that he 
was made up of pride and nothing else, as a man with a deep wound 
seems made up of pain. 

The sting of Doidge’s accusation was lost in the deeper pang 
caused by the immediate public acceptance of his guilt. This was 
the “ quick of the ulcer ” — the consciousness that his friends and 
neighbors, whom for years he had been endeavoring to benefit, should 
be ready at a moment’s notice to put him down not only as a heart- 
less libertine of the conventional type, but as a hypocrite whose 
whole outward life was a lie. He knew nothing of the creeping 
rumors that had been eating away his good name lately ; and he 
was too hard stricken to appraise judicially the crushing weight of 
evidence that had been brought against him. As for the direction 
of Mary’s farewell letter to himself, that was easily explained. He 
had offered to forward any communication she might wish to make 
to Terence, and had acquiesced in her suggested precaution that 
Terence’s name should appear nowhere in the epistle or its address. 
For that damning piece of evidence he might thank his own careless 
good -nature. But Mary’s treacherous tampering with his name to 
Ezekiel — for no one who listened to the man could believe that he 
was speaking other than the truth as to this — was a piece of mean- 
ness which Simon could only add to his general indictment against 
human nature. 

He felt now that he could turn no whither for justice or even com- 
mon kindness. The tradesmen and farmers with whom he had dealt 
so long, the friends whose hands had clasped his a hundred times, 
were all alike eager to condemn him. Had he spent a lifetime in 
building up the reputation of a graceless blackguard, they could not 
have been more speedy or unanimous. He had noticed satisfaction 
at his disgrace upon many faces. He believed that when his con- 


175 


tract with Terence should have been fulfilled, when the real culprit 
had departed, having confessed the truth in writing, these eager de- 
tractors would regret the necessity of admitting his innocence. Such 
was the natural attitude of a mind thrown out of poise by this un- 
expected blow. 

All the next day Simon spent up in his observatory or striding 
over the moor, nursing his wrath and drugging his sick pride with 
cynical aphorisms. In order to be independent and uninterrupted 
he took food enough with him to last till nightfall, and the moment 
he returned from tramping the moorland, locked himself into the 
observatory, resolving to be deaf to all knocking. 

But no one came near him ; and though it accorded exactly with 
both wish and expectation, this desertion by his friends aggravated 
his bitterness. As the long day wore on and never a knock made 
itself heard, his heart was like lead. He passed from hot indigna- 
tion to sullen brooding. Terence, at least, might surely have come 
to thank the man who was suffering in his stead. So he said to 
himself ; yet instinct whispered that Terence would certainly avoid 
him like poison, would slink about dreading to meet him at every 
turn, fearing — even after last night’s proof of good faith — lest he 
should repudiate his quixotic bargain. 

“ Terence is nothing but a poor craven,” he mused, “ and not for 
a moment worth the sacrifice. But then — there’s Nell.” 

He fell to reflecting on Nell’s future. Terence was right; last 
night’s experience had fully justified his forecast as to the profes- 
sional ruin which discovery must bring upon him in this neighbor- 
hood. And to a man of his poor fibre this must mean, as Simon 
clearly perceived, life-ruin also. Terence had none’ of the stiffness 
necessary for a stand-up fight with adversity. Were the practice to 
leave him, and with it all chance of buying another, he would be- 
come the mere plaything of Fortune, sink lower and lower, until he 
reached the dregs of society. And Nell must needs share his degra- 
dation. 

Simon perceived now, however, with the clearness which is so apt 
to come just too late, that his promise was an act of almost criminal 
generosity. He should have furnished Terence with a large sum of 
money rather than have consented to this insane, dishonorable 
silence. But Terence had wrought upon Simon by his fatal per- 
suasive faculty, and used Nell as a lever for the upsetting of his 
judgment. There remained only for Simon to break his word — in 
other words, to cease to be himself — or to lie upon the bed prepared 


176 


by ins own folly. “Terence will dun me for money at the end of 
the month, anyway,” he concluded, with a hard laugh. 

But one day’s hiding of his head was enough for Simon. Pride 
and obstinacy alike demanded that there should be no skulking from 
the public view. He made up his mind to ride about as usual, look 
all men in the face, and dare them to accuse him. This course 
seemed not only an easy but a comforting one, as the most heroic 
line of conduct always seems, until tried. 

To-morrow was market-day at Chillington, and everybody would 
be abroad. Here was just the opportunity his present mood craved 
for showing his high scorn of these false accusers. And perchance — 
this thought underpropped his harder ones — there would be found 
some few loyal enough to come forward and show that they be- 
lieved in him still. 

Next morning, his reckless, heroical mood still holding good, 
Simon proceeded to carry his promising plan into execution. Having 
breakfasted and received Mrs. Henley’s morning report of Sir 
Hamo’s health, he buckled on his proof-armor of pride, mounted 
his tall bay Philanthropy, and headed him northward. And proba- 
bly no haughtier -looking gentleman had ever ridden along the an- 
cient road to Chillington ; for Simon’s bitterness, finding its way to 
his face, seemed to have limned it anew with a harsh hand. 

Upon reaching Chillington bridge he found himself among the 
accustomed group of loungers, and treated them one and all to a 
fierce glare. Ordinarily there would have been a general touching 
of hats, and one or two would have come forward with the morn- 
ing’s news. Not a finger was lifted on this occasion. 

Naturally their principal topic to-day had been Mr. Secretan’s dis- 
grace, and the man who had handled it with keenest relish was now 
hanging over the bridge parapet with nervous unconcern. Another 
man jerked his thumb towards the horseman, cocked his hat rakish- 
ly, and grinned broadly at his friends. The bolder spirits grinned 
back, others shuffled awkwardly with their feet; not a word of 
greeting was offered, good or bad. 

Already the man who had come here expressly to show how lit- 
tle he cared was suffering keenly ; in fact, the sensitive, thin-skinned 
Simon had undertaken a task for which the possession of a bull’s 
hide was the first essential. But if his nerves were quivering, his 
obstinacy was firm as a rock ; he would rather die than turn back 
now. 

He rode on into the High Street, where the very stones seemed 


Ill 


to cry shame upon him. It was crowded with familiar faces, and 
his disgrace was written upon every one. Each particular glance 
he met carried its own special pang. Men stopped to point him 
out to their neighbors ; tradesmen came to shop-doors to gaze at 
the brazen wrong-doer. No man addressed him, but women talked 
of him to each other in quasi-audible tones. He heard the town’s 
opinion of him at every stride of his horse. The very air seemed 
to scorch him. Those who hated Simon might well be jubilant this 
morning. But no one gave him the opening for which he was pant- 
ing by the time he had got half-way up the street; nor would any 
man meet the challenge of his eyes. Twice up and down the High 
Street he rode at a foot’s pace, until his heart was sobbing and a 
rushing sound was filling his ears. Then he dismounted, giving his 
horse to he knew not whom, and drifted through the archway into 
the market-place, too much stunned to know whither he was going; 
and here his distress was destined to reach a climax. 

The market-place consisted of an inner covered portion, under 
which all the neighborhood’s traffic — in poultry, eggs, fish, colored 
handkerchiefs, cheap millinery, and a score of other things — was con- 
centrated once a week, and an outer open space, where were the 
permanent stalls of butchers and other tradesmen of the town. Up 
till noon on market-day the central part would always be packed 
close with a chaffering throng, which fringed away into thinner 
groups through four arched openings. 

It so happened that the butter-and-cream stall, just within the 
archway through which Simon entered, was to-day in charge of the 
Mrs. Parminter whose fiooded cottage we saw him disencumbering 
of furniture on the day of the great flood. This redoubtable woman 
had since then been living with a sister, whom, after an acrid silence 
of some years, she had found it convenient to propitiate. But it 
was a hard thing thus to eat humble-pie to a sister much better off 
than herself, and Mrs. Parminter had not forgotten to whom she 
owed the necessity. Against this gentleman, this future baronet, 
who, under pretence of charity, thrust people into hovels only built 
to catch the floods, she entertained a grudge such as only a profes- 
sional shrew can hope to build up. And she now saw him approach- 
ing from under the archway, walking unsteadily, looking dazed and 
bewildered. No wonder the woman panted with triumph, while 
her hard-lined face was puckered with a malignant grin. 

As Simon drifted vaguely past the stall, a sudden torrent of vitu- 
peration swept down upon him. The High Street had taunted him 
13 


178 


mainly with quiet sneers tossed over shoulders, or had scowled at 
him in silence, the small boys alone venturing to follow him with 
cries of “Who killed Mary Pethick?” But now all the scorn and 
wrath of Chillington was pouring from Mrs. Parminter’s tongue 
with the vehemence of a flooded mill-race. No mealy words made 
up the torrent, but the coarsest and crudest to be found in the store 
of a coarse woman, so that in that stream of foul abuse poor Mary’s 
name was like a white blossom carried along by a sewer. 

A crowd soon collected round Simon and his accuser, and other 
tongues were loosed. 

Simon was no longer master of himself, hardly even conscious of 
what he was doing, until, right before him, emerging from the 
threatening crush, he perceived that for which his soul craved — a 
man as tall and powerful as himself menacing him with a heavy 
whip. 

It was a young farmer named Fry, a former lover of Mary’s, and 
the moment he was within reach he slashed Simon across the face 
with the whip. 

When Simon struck him back, those who heard the heavy farmer 
fall thought he would never rise more. Then the women were 
thrust aside, and the men fell upon Mary’s supposed seducer. 

But there were many present who would not quietly allow one 
man to be mauled by a dozen ; the brawl at once became general. 
In a twinkling the stall was smashed to fragments, the corner of the 
market was a hurtling mass of arms and flsts and sticks, of heavy 
breathings and straining bodies. A short but savage brawl it was, 
where every blow went home with an oath, and those who fell were 
trampled by those who fought. 

Simon the philanthropist strove and struck with the fury of a 
madman, so that no man could stand before him. After a time — ■ 
whether long or short he never knew — he found himself standing 
ringed by a clear space. The fighting lust still burned in him ; 
blood was flowing from more than one cut on his face; he was still 
shouting for an adversary, jeering at the throng for a pack of cow- 
ards. Some were advancing again, when a voice in his rear called 
out: 

“ Keep back, damn you all, or he’ll be the death of some o’ you ! 
Here’s Farmer Fry with some ribs broken, and one or two others 
pretty bad. You’d best look after the ‘wounded and mend your 
own heads, while I get this madman away.” 

The speaker then plucked at Simon’s arm, saying, persuasively : 


179 


“Come, sir, you’ve had fighting enough for one day. Damme, 
what ’ll the neighborhood say of us, and me a poor devil with a 
practice to make ?” 

“ Hands off !” cried Simon, angrily. 

“ Man, man, you’ll ruin my reputation as a quiet young doctor. 
Come, don’t be rough on a chap who has fought on your side and 
lost half his front teeth in the scrimmage ! Suppose we stand easy 
a bit before we renew this pretty scene, anyway ?” 

Simon found himself being drawn quietly to the archway, still ex- 
horted by the good-natured voice ; and in two minutes Jack Syme 
— for he it was — had captured the first empty farmer’s gig he could 
lay hands on, hustled his charge onto the seat, jumped up himself, 
and was driving rapidly across the open space beside the town-hall 
in the direction of the Monks Damerel road. 

It happened by a neat twist of circumstance that the cart be- 
longed to Farmer Fry, who had begun the broil, and now lay in- 
sensible amid the wreck of the stall. As he drove over the town 
bridge, and lashed the farmer’s mare into a hand - gallop, Syme 
grinned at his own cleverness. 

“ But for this cart and my mother-wit the row would have ended 
in manslaughter, I reckon,” he chuckled. “ As ’tis there’ll be a job 
or two for Dodson and the other doctors — and Terence ’ll have to 
stand me a new set of teeth, by George ! How d’ye feel, Mr. Secre- 
tan ? I’m not a bit surprised at you ; have seen something of your 
sort before now. No such fierce devil, when roused, as your big, 
fair-haired, soft-hearted cuss who wouldn’t tread on a worm most 
times ! But in your place I’d keep clear of the town for a month 
or two. You’re the sort that gets drunk with fighting, and so it 
isn’t good for you — or other people. There was a pal of mine at 
Bart’s just of your stamp — a quiet chap enough in a general way, 
but a reckless firebrand at bottom. ’Struth, but you did maul some 
of ’em just now ! ’Twas a pretty little row in its way, and I don’t 
pretend not to have enjoyed it. We’re all savages ^t heart, you 
see — a blow or two, and the veneer of civilization comes off in 
cakes !” 

Jack Syme smacked his thick lips by way of conclusion, and snapped 
together his remaining teeth with more relish than might have been 
expected from so very quiet a young doctor. 

As they drove along and Simon’s heat evaporated, he grew full of 
lassitude and weariness ; yet, even so, listened to the doctor’s rollick- 
ing talk, and responded to his consolatory efforts in a way which im- 


180 


pressed Jack oddly. Syme began to be interested in this man whom 
he had hitherto hated with some cordiality. 

“ Secretan’s an odd mixture,” he reflected. “ What the deuce can 
one make of a man who bears himself like an aristocrat, spends his 
days in scientific study or in fidgeting the poor, mixes philanthropy 
with libertinism, listens to what you have to say like a woman, and 
fights like a damned lunatic ? Here’s the queerest amalgam I ever 
came across — a Don Quixote or a Don Juan ; hang me if I know 
which !” 

Upon reaching the first lodge-gates of Monks Damerel, Jack 
offered to put his passenger down; but Simon entreated him to drive 
on to the Hall and have some lunch, adding, “ You’ve got me out of 
a bad scrape, and I’ve hardly even thanked you yet.” 

“ Pshaw ! that’s nothing ; but, anyway. I’ll drive you home and 
look to your wounds and bruises a bit. There’s a cut on your cheek 
that needs sewing up, for one thing. Suppose we drive into the 
stable-yard, however, for Sir Hamo ought not to see you in this 
blood-stained condition ?” 

Accordingly Syme touched up the mare, turned into the avenue, 
and again betook himself to reflection. 

He was the only person in Chillington whom Secretan had really 
injured ; and this befriending of an enemy — a man whose uncalled 
for interference had done serious hurt to his prospects — gave Jack 
Syme one or two new sensations ; stirring his magnanimity, yet 
calling for some self-contempt. Accustomed to carry through a 
quarrel to its bitter end, he was now showing a forgiveness worthy 
of the copy-books. “ However, he’s an aristocrat at bottom, and is 
sure to cut me dead in a day or two, when I shall be free to cuss him 
again at will.” With this apology for his own good feeling. Jack 
satisfied his mind. 

Half-way up the avenue they were stopped by a richly dressed and 
stately woman whom Syme suspected, yet could hardly believe, to 
be the house-keeper at the Hall. But it was no other than Mrs. Hen- 
ley ; and she approached the near side of the trap as soon as it drew 
up with a stiff courtesy to Mr. Secretan, saying : 

“I beg your pardon, sir, but Sir Hamo directed me to give you 
this note before you entered the house, if possible.” 

With the tact of a well-trained servant, Mrs. Henley seemed to 
disregard Simon’s strange and battered appearance; but her quick 
glance at him as he took the note was full of spiteful triumph, and 
her half-smile was feline. 


• 181 


While his companion walked aside a few paces the doctor fell to 
regarding this formidable woman. Her severe looks impressed him 
not a whit, but the superior fashion of her garments and her loftiness 
of mien called forth a train of philosophical reflection. 

“ She’s a deal better off than I shall ever be,” he mused; “and will 
have nice pickings when the old gentleman slips his cable. I might 
do worse than make her an offer of marriage ? Yes, and I’d do it to- 
morrow, by Jove, though she’s old enough to be my mother — only 
she’d never look at anything so low as a doctor. Fancy introducing 
such a duchess of a woman to our little villa at Hammersmith — lord, 
how she would sneer ! Hullo ! is she going to make advances to 
me?” 

Mrs. Henley was, in point of fact, bent upon having some dis- 
course with the doctor. She now came close to the cart, carefully 
holding back her silk dress from the muddy wheel, and whispered, 
eagerly : 

“ Is it true, sir — about the other night, I mean ? Mr. Doidge has 
been closeted with Sir Hamo for ever so long, and I overheard — at 
least, they talked so loud that a sentence or two reached me — about 
Mr. Simon and the cricket meeting.” 

“ Ezekiel up there !” Syme gave vent to a low whistle. “ Then he 
only means to spoil Secretan’s prospects? I should hardly have 
thought the crazy fellow would have been satisfied with so mild a 
course ?” 

“Is it true. Dr. Syme? Were you there yourself?” 

“ Yes, I was there. What did Sir Hamo say to the news?’’ 

“ He’s cruel bad, sir. I had to send off for Dr. Clancy an hour 
ago, aud he’s with Sir Hamo still.” 

“ Here’s a scene in high life for the local papers,” thought Syme. 
“ Between the public and the parent our young squire is likely to get 
it hot, it seems?” 

“ If ’tis true,” muttered Mrs. Henley between her shut lips, allow- 
ing her intense excitement to gleam in her eyes for a moment, “ Sir 
Hamo ’ll cut him off with a shillin’, sure as I stand here ; aye, and 
will understand why Miss Nell had to throw him over. Ah ! I always 
thought there was some bad story behind that.” 

“You always hoped it, judging by your looks,” thought Syme. 
“ However, perhaps you’re not far wrong. Likely enough. Miss 
Nell had suspicions, and Secretan the sinner made way for Clancy the 
comparative saint; in fact, vice was humbled, and virtue triumphant 
—as always happens in this best of worlds.” 


182 


Instead of gratifying Mrs. Henley by expressing these sentiments 
aloud, however, Jack looked over his shoulder to see how the sin- 
ner was faring. 

Simon was leaning against a tree with the letter crushed in his 
hand. He had turned very pale, and with his torn clothes and cut- 
open cheek, presented a rather ghastly appearance ; but, finding him- 
self observed curiously, he quickly straightened himself, and stalked 
to the trap haughtily enough. 

“You can tell your master that he will hear from me shortly,” he 
said to Mrs. Henley ; and she bowed without daring to hazard a re- 
mark or ask a question, though half frantic with curiosity. 

“ I am sorry to say,” Simon turned to the doctor, with a courte- 
ous bend of the head, “that I cannot offer you any hospitality at 
the Hall to-day ; but I hope you’ll come and lunch with me at the 
Falcon ?” ^ 

“Damn it, the man has pluck!” muttered Syme. Aloud he said 
something confusedly about an engagement. He was conscious that 
this man with the pale face and quiet voice was mastering him as 
well as the house-keeper ; there was a kind of proud despair about 
Simon that awed and touched him at once. 

“ I’m sorry you won’t lunch with me ; but in that case let us drive 
back into the village.” 

Jack Syme did everything he was told, like a school-boy under the 
master’s orders ; and when they drove off Mrs. Henley stood gazing 
after them. 

“ Has he gone altogether ?” she asked herself. “ Have we ousted his 
philanthropic lordship for good and all ? If so, the Lord be praised 1” 

The pair proceeded at once to Monks Damerel hamlet and pulled 
up before the first cottage, where Secretan descended. 

Almost before his foot touched the ground a wrinkled old woman 
came forth carrying a slate in her hand. This old body was known 
to Jack Syme as a deaf-mute, Sarah Venn by name, who looked after 
and cleaned Mr. Secretan’s observatory. 

Simon began at once to write upon her slate, reading the words 
aloud, as though willing to make Syme aware of his plan — “I wish 
you to come over to Hollacornb Farm as soon as possible; I api 
going to live there for a month, and shall be glad to have your 
services as house-keeper.” 

Mrs. Venn, after perusing the slate, nodded and smiled, well con- 
tent to serve the open-handed young squire, and too old, or too in- 
different, to feel any curiosity about his sudden freak. 


183 


And now, Mr. Syme, I mustn’t trespass upon your kindness any 
longer. You’ve been a friend in need to me to-day, and I only hope 
Farmer Fry won’t proceed against you for stealing his trap.” 

“You’re going to stay here?” 

“ I’m going to walk on to Hollacomb. You can leave me here.” 

“ I’m hanged if I do !” cried the other, brusquely. “ You ain’t fit 
to do the walk. If you’re bound for Hollacomb, so am I.” 

Secretan jumped up without more words, and they once more 
set off. 

Jack Syme felt all abroad by this time, and drove along in puz- 
zled silence. It was clear that a breach of some sort had occurred 
between Sir Hamo and his son, but that Simon should set up his 
tent at Hollacomb above all other places, the scene of his victim’s 
death, filled him with astonishment. The farm was a lonely, de- 
serted place, buried among lonely, dripping woodlands. Old Mr. 
Pethick had been removed by his friends on the day of the inquest ; 
already it was rumored that the dead girl’s spirit haunted the farm 
and path by the canal. What, in the name of wonder, could induce 
Secretan to bury himself in this grewsome spot with a deaf, speech- 
less old crone for his sole companion ? 

Yet, for all his self-confidence. Jack Syme could not bring himself 
to ask any prying questions; for not only had Secretan’s stoical 
bearing a suppressive power of its own, but his very courtesy mag- 
nified the same. Nor could the doctor, whose own experience in- 
clined him to look upon poverty and physical suffering as the only 
serious ills of life, realize that this proud, healthy, well-to-do gentle- 
man could be suffering any pangs calling for the pity of a poor devil 
like himself. 

They passed slowly through a long, rutty lane, emerged onto the 
high-road for a mile or so, then commenced the steep ascent through 
the Hollacomb woods, reaching the farm about two o’clock. 

This ancient farm-house of Simon’s was built upon a small knoll, 
and so elevated somewhat above the canal banks. It had been in 
possession of his mother’s family through many generations, having 
been, in all probability, designed as a residence for some younger 
son at a period when the junior members of a county family settled 
into some small house on the ancestral estate without much thought 
of carving out a career; or even, as in very many cases, set up as 
small tradesmen in the neighboring market-town. 

Most of the land attached to the homestead had generations ago 
been absorbed into a neighboring large farm, and the remainder 


planted with oak and birch trees ; thus the little group of buildings 
had been gradually immersed in an advancing tide of woodland. 

When the spring-cart with its two passengers emerged onto the 
narrow breadth of sward that lay between knoll and canal, Syme 
gazed at the dreary place with a kind of shudder, then glanced 
quickly at his companion as though expecting him to change his 
mind. 

But Secretan descended without hesitation, and made his way to 
a big stone under which he knew the house-key to be concealed. 

Key in hand, he then mounted the knoll by a little curving path 
which led up to the glazed door of the farm_ parlor. This door 
opened onto some steps cut in the rock, and was sheltered by two 
immense ash-trees with rugged pinkish-gray bark and great moss- 
cushioned limbs. Under the trees was a rustic seat erected by 
Simon’s late tenant, Mr. Pethick, who would sit here dabbling with 
his science primers through half a summer day. Here, too, had 
Mary sat and dreamed away the time over some romance thick-sown 
with noble names, when no concert or other diversion drew her steps 
townward. 

“ Come up and see the place,” Secretan called out, when he had 
unlocked the door. “ Some of the old man’s furniture is quaint and 
curious.” 

“ No, thank you,” grinned Syme, from below ; adding, in a voice 
of some concern, “ Surely you’re not going to spend a whole month 
in this desolate hole ?” 

Secretan certainly looked out of keeping with his surroundings 
as he stood upon the rocky steps, with the sodden thatch dripping 
mournfully upon him, and on all sides ruined woodlands weeping 
for the dead and gone summer. 

“ May I ask if you intend remaining in the neighborhood when 
your hermit-month is up ?” asked the doctor, when Simon emerged 
from a brief inspection of the homestead. 

“ At the end of a month I shall leave it, with the fixed intention 
of never seeing it again.” 

“ I begin to understand,” the other muttered under his breath. 
“ Secretan’s not mad, but bent upon doing a penance. He’s bitten 
with remorse, and means to work it off by solitary confinement. 
Yes, that’s how the case stands; I’ve hit it at last. And how much 
will that benefit the poor girl who has gone to kingdom-come, I 
wonder? What cussed odd corners there are in the man, to be 
sure ! Now, how am I to part from him ? Shall I offer to shake 


185 


hands? No; he’d think that infernal presumption. Besides, I’ve 
only half forgiven that old injury. Yet I’d shake hands like a shot 
if he cared to do it.” Simon was now standing beside the trap, 
evidently expecting the other to depart. “ Well, good - bye, Mr. 
Secretan.” 

“ Good-bye, and many thanks.” 

“ Don’t mention it. Good-bye.” 

Syme gathered up his reins, paused, felt mean, and nearly dropped 
them again ; then drove off without further demonstration, looking 
hot and uncomfortable. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


There was a cheerful commotion at the White House one morn- 
ing some ten days after Simon’s secession to his woodland hermit- 
age, for Nell Clancy, being now pronounced convalescent, was to 
descend to the morning-room and throw aside the distasteful role of 
interesting invalid. 

She had been very apologetic for permitting herself to be laid up 
at all, and stated her intention of exhibiting her old robust health 
from this day forth. 

“ I do so hate being a nuisance to everybody and turning your 
home into a hospital, Terence,” she had been exclaiming several 
times a day ; but her careful husband, well aware of her tendency to 
be over - energetic, had hitherto flatly declined to allow her down- 
stairs. 

Terence had made many little preparations for her comfort, bus- 
tling about upon one small errand after another with the ardor of a 
school-boy and the thoughtfulness of a woman ; but, being called 
away into the town just as she was about to descend, he missed the 
pleasure of welcoming her back to the routine of happy every-day 
life. 

About mid-day, however, he cantered up the hill again, and rushed 
in exultingly to greet his young wife. 

But the brightness fell from him before he had taken two steps 
into the room. He found Nell lying back in an arm-chair, looking 
tearful and woe-begone. 

Terence’s first impulse was to turn back, jump on Rosalind’s back, 
and gallop away from the house. He guessed at once what had hap- 
pened, and knew that the inevitable climax, which he had yet hoped 
to put off a few days longer, could not now be avoided. 

Strict injunctions had been laid upon the servants not to breathe 
a word to their mistress of the events with which the place was ring- 
ing; but doubtless during his absence this morning some pertina- 
cious friend had thrust herself upon Nell and babbled for an hour of 
the cricket meeting, the brawl in the market-place, the retirement 
of Simon to the farm, and all the rest of it. 


187 


“ Do stay, Terence dear,” entreated Nell, seeing that her husband 
was inclined to edge away towards the door, “ and let me know the 
truth about this dreadful business. Ah, I can see by your face that 
there is something seriously wrong.” 

Terence sat down, pale and perturbed, at some little distance from 
his wife. 

“ Who has been to see you ?” he asked, in a voice that accorded 
well with his looks. 

“ Miss Doddridge, dear.” 

“ I thought so. That woman is no better than a fool !” 

'‘You’re vexed with her for telling me all this wretched news; 
but I must have heard it sooner or later. Oh, Terence, is any of it 
true ?” 

“ Is what true?” 

“ All this about Simon ?” 

“ I can’t answer vague questions like that. I do wish you would 
be a little more specific, Nell. Do you mean, was a public accusa- 
tion made against him ? Yes, that is true.” 

“No, no. What do I care about the mere fact of the accusa- 
tion ? I want to know upon what ground it was based, what vestige 
of excuse even his worst enemy could find for hinting such a thing 
about a man like Simon ?” 

“You always did have a mighty high opinion of that spotless 
liero !” 

“ Yes,” Nell answered, simply ; “ and that’s how it is I find it ab- 
solutely impossible to believe him guilty of any bad conduct whatso- 
ever. Surely you have been to him, Terence, and heard his indignant 
denials, and have promised to stand by him ? I can understand how 
he might have kept silence when Ezekiel Doidge fell upon him in 
public in that shameless way ; for Simon is at bottom a proud and 
stubborn man — and — and — yes, I can half understand it, though I 
can’t explain it. But surely you have seen him, dear ?” 

“ I have seen him ; but what passed between us was spoken in 
confidence.” 

“Then I will see him myself, and force the truth from him, and 
proclaim it abroad, and put a stop to these wicked, slanderous lies !” 

“This excitement is very bad for you, Nell. I wish you would 
• exercise some self-control, instead of throwing yourself into this 
hysterical state.” 

“ So I am hysterical — if that’s the word for being angry and bit- 
terly disappointed. How can you be so calm and apathetic when 


188 


poor old Simon, the friend who has loaded you with benefits, is 
writhing under this public disgrace ?” 

“ Confound his benefits and his virtues, too !” cried Terence, start- 
ing up with an ugly fold in his brow. “ Isn’t it enough to be load- 
ed with obligation by a man I — I hate — without being dosed with 
his excellences by way of daily tonic ?” 

Nell, weakened by recent illness, wept quietly ; but there was a 
growing stubbornness in her face which clearly meant no surrender. 
She had hitherto dealt tenderly with her husband’s jealousy, abstain- 
ing whenever possible even from the mention of Simon’s name ; but 
she was for the moment stirred into downright antagonism by Ter- 
ence’s apparent inclination to range himself on the side of the ac- 
cusers. Defend Simon she must, at all hazards. Her heart and 
mind were seething with indignant denial of his guilt. 

Her husband, reading her face with a sidelong glance, fell into a 
silence which looked like mere sulkiness, but had a deeper signifi- 
cance than was apparent. He had proposed that this explanation, 
which sooner or later would have to be got through, should result 
only in vague generalities and hints that all would come right, round- 
ed off in due course by sympathy and caresses. But, as usual, he 
had been over-sanguine, had relied too much upon the simple adora- 
tion, the sweet obedience of his dutiful little wife. Feeling him- 
self little less than a demigod in her eyes, he had counted upon 
her meek acceptance of such soothing half-explanations as he could 
afford to give. 

He now perceived that Nell had formed a resolution to know the 
why and wherefore of this matter, and that she possessed a fund of 
bitter obstinacy that must be reckoned with. Her angry champion- 
ship of Simon brought back his old jealousy with a rush ; and her 
failure in the adoring obedience he had looked for gave it added po- 
tency, at the same time filling him with alarm. This mood of hers 
was dangerous. He could not have her proclaiming Simon’s inno- 
cence from the house-tops, thereby working up public opinion to a 
thorough investigation of, instead of quiet acquiescence in, his guilt. 
She was like one who stands whirling a firebrand over a hidden mag- 
azine of gunpowder, the sway of whose arm must be checked at all 
hazards. Her hands must be tied fast, and the only bonds available 
were — lies. The situation was too acute to permit of mere finessing • 
on his part ; its only possible cure lay in downright lying. Ter- 
ence’s brain buzzed with the hard thinking it was put to, but no com- 
promise would shape itself to his efforts. His one chance seemed to 


189 


rest upon her absolute acceptance of Simon’s guilt ; to achieve whiijh 
he must, if necessary, add lie to lie, false evidence to false evidence. 

Nor would a temporary edifice of falsehood suflSce now ; the build- 
ing must needs be such as would last his lifetime. By saying little, 
by merely allowing her to drift with public opinion, he had hoped 
to leave himself a loop-hole for final confession ; but once he had 
deliberately, of his own free will, laid his guilt upon Simon’s shoul- 
ders, he felt that no possible combination of circumstances could 
ever give him strength to own to such baseness ; the terror of Nell’s 
scorn would keep him lying on so long as the power of speech re- 
mained to him. 

And Terence had not yet sunk so low as to be able to face this 
prospect without self-loathing. His conscience had been drilled into 
surprising obedience lately, but was not yet so wearied out as to be 
capable of sleeping through all noises. It was awake now, goading 
him insistently with Simon’s past kindness and brotherly love, and 
most of all with his late self-sacrifice. 

Her husband’s face, always reflective to emotion, as pool to passing 
cloud, offered plain tokens of his present mental struggle, and touched 
Nell with swift contrition. 

“I am sorry, oh, I am sorry!” she cried, drawing towards him. 
“ It was harsh and untrue to call you apathetic. You feel it as much 
as I, dear; but I was always dreadfully hasty. All the same, Ter- 
ence,” she continued, firmly, with warm blood rising in her cheeks, 
“ you must bear to hear that Simon’s honor is very dear to me, that 
I always shall look upon him as a brother whom I have wronged 
deeply ; who can never be more than a brother, but who, once for all, 
can never be less. Now tell me all that this wretched man Doidge 
said to him at the cricket meeting.” 

Then, with a seared heart, a desolating sense of having sunk 
lower than he had ever conceived possible, Terence entered upon his 
task. 

He began by rehearsing the different points of Ezekiel’s indict- 
ment. When he came to the story of the letter, Nell bowed her 
head and wept bitterly. With dry lips, in mechanical tones, he told 
of the clamor that thereupon ensued, to loud calls upon Simon 
to answer, yea or nay, the earnest appeals of Lord Bridistow and 
other friends ; finally, of Simon’s haughty refusal to say a word in 
his defence. 

Nell listened, without raising her head, in stony silence. Her ideal 
Simon was turning to clay, and must soon fall to “ cureless ruin.” 


190 


“And I always thought him too good for me,” she whispered 
presently, in a scared, hopeless sort of way. “He always seemed to 
stand upon a height quite above and beyond me.” 

“ That’s why I hate him still,” said Terence, breathing heavily. 

A new outrush of jealousy was bearing Terence along now, mak- 
ing this traitor’s task easy of performance. “This loving wife of 
yours,” the demon whispered in his ear, “ was false to him once, and 
would be to you upon suflScient provocation. Were she to find out 
the truth she’d spurn you, and martyrize this matchless and faithful 
old lover. Trample on him now he’s down ; trample, you fool, or 
he’ll rise up some day and blow your happiness to fragments ! It 
has been the same story all through, from the first moment of yaur 
caring for Nell — either he must go down or you. It is a death fight 
between you and Simon, and you can’t skulk off the field. Either 
pin him to the ground now he’s down, or throw down your arms 
like a sentimental fool, and have done with it !” 

“ Do you remember that evening by the canal ?” — he spoke now in a 
low malignant voice that sounded strangely to Nell — “and how Simon’s 
conduct puzzled you ? How he seemed to expect what he found ?” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” moaned Nell; “it is dreadful to have it built 
up step by step — let me hold fast to what little hope I have.” 

“ I remember your precise words that night : ‘ He seemed to be 
looking for this.’ That was what you said upon the spur of the 
moment, that was the impression you drew from the circumstances 
without a word from any one to bias you.” 

He went on steadily building up his case, spurred hard by fear 
and jealousy, until Nell could no longer hold her own against the 
cumulative evidence that he piled up. But if her reason was well- 
nigh convinced, her heart was still rebellious. 

“You seem almost to take a pleasure in forcing me to condemn 
him, Terence.” 

He winced uneasily. For the moment the ardor of his malice 
was abated ; for to keep it at the necessary high pitch he needed the 
full vigor of her opposition, which was now growing feeble. He was 
becoming aware that this victory would be no bloodless one; that as 
success grew more assured, the voice of his better self would once 
more insist upon a hearing, would scourge him the more fiercely 
when he had nothing left to fear. Already the sustainment of anger 
was giving way, the sickness of self-scorn was again creeping through 
him ; the aftershine of old friendship was throwing into mournful 
relief the baseness of this old friend’s betrayal. 


191 


Nell was weak and languid now, and much in need of her husband’s 
consolation. One ideal was shattered ; another seemed to be totter- 
ing. The man she respected most in the world had fallen lower 
than she could yet realize : the one she loved most had spoken so 
harshly as to fill her heart with pain. 

“ Terence,” she asked, timidly, “ has something come between us? 
Is it to be the old miserable story ? Are we going to prove the jus- 
tice of the world’s miserable jeers about wedded love? You look 
so — so unlike yourself, and I’m so wretched, Terence — ” 

Here she fell from quiet weeping into violent grief, so that Ter- 
ence was fain to call himself a brute as well as a traitor. Yet he 
was incapable of soothing or caressing her. He sat with his own 
head bent, feeling in his degradation that he was unfit to touch 
her. 

“ Kiss me, Terence !” she sobbed — “ kiss me once and say that 
you still love me !” 

But he could make no response, and burning tears were falling 
from his own eyes. 

“ If I had but told the truth at the beginning,” he groaned to him- 
self, “they wouldn’t have been so very hard on me. In time I might 
have held up my head again as a doctor; and, after bearing my pun- 
ishment, even she might have forgiven me. 

“Nell,” he said presently aloud, making a miserable effort to re- 
cover a fragment or two of self-respect, “you ought to keep yourself 
from being too hard on the man. Think how severely tried he must 
have been by your dismissal. In that state of raging disappointment 
a man is hardly responsible for his actions. When you turned upon 
me that night at Hollacomb Manor I was beside myself ; . . . and — 
and I know what his state must have been a fortnight later, when he 
came upon you and me in the larch wood. Good heavens ! is a man 
to be condemned so utterly for one false step — now, doubtless, re- 
pented of bitterly?” 

“ God forgive me if I’m hard,” Nell answered, solemnly ; “ but I 
hope never to see his face again.” 

It will be seen that Simon was paying the penalty with her, as 
with the bulk of his judges, of his former spotless reputation. It 
is a commonplace truth — cynical on the surface, but perhaps honor- 
able to human nature if probed deep enough — that the weight of a 
sinner’s condemnation is always in direct proportion to the supposed 
excellence of his character. We can be lenient to our weaker breth- 
ren, but our heroes must be. without stain. A Claudio may go astray 


192 


without drying up human charity, but an Angelo who slips is past 
praying for. ^ 

“ You hope never to see him again ?” repeated Terence, bitterly. 
“ I suppose that is a sample of the mercy an erring mortal may look 
for from a good woman who visits districts and never slurs a duty ? 
Nell, you’re too good for a poor devil like me, who never hopes to 
be quite perfect !” 

“ Such pleading will not soften Simon’s guilt much,” she answered, 
sadly. 

“ But a moment ago you were crying out upon me for being hard 
on him, and now you cut me up for saying a single word in bis fa- 
vor. Lord preserve us from feminine consistency as well as feminine 
mercy !” 

“Forgive me, Terence; I know I’m inconsistent — but I’m very 
miserable, too. You don’t know what a blow this has been to me; 

. . . and I can’t bear to hear you speak to me so bitterly.” Then, 
with eyes full of tender submission and love, she whispered, laying 
a small hand on his neck, “You forgive me, dear? Oh, Terence, 
don’t be hard with me ! And let us quarrel no more now — and never, 
never again. Kiss me, beloved ; your love is more dear to me than 
life !” 

She stooped her head until her long lashes brushed his forehead ; 
but Terence could only mutter in a choking voice : 

“’Tis you that are hard. I cannot kiss you ; you crush a sinner 
like me with your virtue. I’m not good enough for you, and can 
never hope to be !” 


/ 


CHAPTER XXV 

The moist warm mist of the Chilling vale had given way at the 
dry calm touch of genuine winter. 

There was a thin coating of snow over the houses and streets 
of the town; the open fields wore a lace mantle of pure white, 
freckled with earthy brown, and mottled here and there with the 
richer hue of soil cast up by the moles. Ezekiel Doidge’s group of 
farm buildings, which lay in the meadows below Hollacomb Great 
Wood, formed a ruddy oasis in the broad spread of whiteness. The 
woodlands, of a heavy purplish black, made another strong contrast; * 
the osier beds by the canal showed golden-brown and pale amber, 
and the still water gave back the fleece of mixed grays which formed 
the quiet sky above it. The smoke of the farmstead went up straight 
and evenly. Save the two men cutting and binding fagots at the 
edge of a plantation, not a soul was to be seen in all the breadth of 
meadow and copse. Rooks were cawing and circling in a quiet 
melancholy way above the hanging woods, while the croak of cock 
pheasants rose up to greet them. The distant moor was clear, but 
not shapely defined. There was a slight frost in the air, and every- 
where a sense of pause and rest. 

Along the canal path, a mile or more within the woodland, the 
hermit of Hollacomb was slowly strolling. 

Simon’s intention of cutting himself off from the human portion 
of the world had been carried out with some completeness ; but his 
endeavors to create a world of his own out of books and work, to 
be independent of human kindness, fellowship, and the other ingre- 
dients of happiness presumably supplied to man by his neighbors, 
had not been so successful. 

In that dismal retreat of his Simon had proposed to substitute 
brain-stuff for heart-stuff, to take to heart mathematical problems in 
place of human ones. There seemed no need for insane hatred of 
his fellows, such as befell Athenian Timon ; he proposed rather to 
ignore their existence altogether. He had spent some years of his 
life in the endeavor to benefit the community of Chillington, and 
the place had opened its mouth to swallow down his disgrace with 


194 


a greedy readiness. He had occupied a twelvemonth in trying to 
win the love of his promised bride, and had succeeded in completely 
estranging her. He had lent a strong helping hand to a friend, 
whose gratitude had taken the form of simple robbery. Half a 
lifetime of patient affection had rendered him no more than tol- 
erable in his father’s eyes, and had issued at length in a breach 
which would probably never be healed. In each of these cases he 
seemed to have vitiated all chance of success simply by trying too 
hard ; so the only rational procedure for the future seemed to be to 
try not at all. 

Simon had come to this conclusion, he considered, by process 
of calm reason ; a sequence of pure syllogisms had led up to his 
hermitage. He conceived himself to be a fully equipped philoso- 
pher, minded to follow Teufelsdrock’s method of handling the frac- 
tion of life ; to make no demand of it whatever ; to reduce the 
denomination of the fraction to zero, and so achieve an infinity of 
calm satisfaction. But, it need hardly be added, this recluse of Holla- 
comb was nothing but an unlucky man, with crushed hopes and a 
sick heart, who bad stuck fast in the centre of indifference. He was, 
to borrow the words of a real philosopher, “ one of such as take 
too high a strain at first, and are magnanimous more than the tract 
of years can uphold.” 

He had not, as many people imagined, been turned out of house 
and home by his father, for Sir Hamo had a superstitious objection 
to any such harsh, Roman -fatherly proceeding. Though he had 
never found much difficulty in bruising his son’s heart, he could not 
bring himself to the point of turning his person out-of-doors. The 
note delivered by Mrs. Henley in the avenue had intimated Sir Ha- 
mo’s acceptance of his son’s guilt, as proved by his silence under 
public accusation, and had requested that Simon should in future 
confine himself to the west wing of the Hall, and spare his father the 
pain of further communication with him. To this Simon had re- 
joined by a brief business-like epistle — written as it were with chilled 
steel, though the penman’s heart was burning — to state that ho 
would never again present himself at the Hall save at his father’s own 
request. 

This final alienation was among the first-fruits of Simon’s quix- 
otic compact with Terence Clancy, and a plentiful crop was yet to 
follow. He had not yet realized the impossibility of fencing in the 
effects of a given line of conduct; and had yet to learn that a man 
cannot lift a finger without affecting the whole complex net-work of 


195 


relations by which he is bound to others, that the current of will 
which starts a given action cannot be conducted in a given direction 
by a patent insulated wire. 

But these facts of ordinary experience were beginning to impress 
themselves upon him during this afternoon’s saunter, thereby adding 
another degree or two to his normal mental gloom. 

Water-voles and small birds, growing daily tamer now that winter 
had really set in, were the only companions of his walk; and the 
placid hush of nature seemed only to aggravate the morbid nervous 
condition in which three weeks of solitary brooding had landed him. 
Existence hung upon Simon like a heavy saturated garment, and no 
amount of philosophizing helped in any way to reduce its weight. 
In short, he was utterly weary of himself this afternoon, of his own 
hopeless disappointments and cynical heart-burnings; yet dreaded 
returning to his solitary room, and the labor that had lost its power 
to physic pain. 

As the time drew on, however, be began to feel that any change 
must be for the better, that even the four walls of a room would 
have a less stifling effect upon his spirits than the solemn woods and 
cold gliding water. 

Accordingly he turned his steps homeward, and began to w’alk 
more briskly. 

Upon reaching the path of sward, now snow covered, below the 
farm, Simon caught the glint of his own Are through the glazed 
door of the parlor. But this failed to cheer him, causing rather a 
mental reaction in favor of the snowy landscape outside ; for he had 
done too much solitary thought -grinding by that log fire to find 
much welcome in its gleam. 

He toiled slowly up the knoll and opened the glazed door. 

The little room might have looked snug enough wdth a buxom 
farmer’s wife sewing by the fire, and a group of children scram- 
bling; but the firelight displayed only the old bookcase in which 
still stood Mr. Pethick’s row of science primers, and the table strewn 
with Simon’s now hateful work. He entered in a spiritless way, 
pausing on the threshold as though but half inclined to face it. 

But, upon drawing near the fire, Simon’s glance fell upon a figure 
seated in a shadow near the door which led through into the kitchen ; 
whereupon he started in a way significant of his nervous condition. 

A sudden shoot of flame from the wide grateless hearth showed 
the figure to be that of Kate Tredethlyn. She rose and stood be- 
fore him, gravely silent. 


196 


Nor was Simon at first capable of uttering a word. The ap- 
pearance of this visitor vexed and surprised him, for he had 
given strict orders to his house-keeper to admit no one, gentle or 
simple. 

After regarding him for a few moments somewhat nervously, 
though with a gleam of sympathetic amusement in her eyes, Kate 
ventured to break the silence. 

“ I have come to see you, Simon,” she said, in a voice which came 
with difficulty, “ and in the first place I must exonerate your house- 
keeper from the charge of harboring me. She wrote your wishes 
down on a slate, and then only stopped short of pushing me out at 
your door.” 

Simon placed a chair for his visitor mechanically and leaned 
against the table, grasping it with one hand, and staring at her con- 
fusedly. Kate’s presence contrasted as abruptly with the narrow 
mental routine into which he had fallen as her graceful figure, richly 
befurred and mantled, with the homely little chamber. 

For the first few moments she preserved a tense, alert attitude, as 
of one who anticipates a combat, and means fighting; but by this 
bold venture into his citadel she had captured Simon’s works at a 
stroke. It was evident that he was in a dazed condition, and with- 
out a thought of driving her out again. 

She relaxed her vigilance accordingly, loosed the fur boa round 
her neck, stretched her snowy boots towards the glowing logs, and 
said, in a natural, commonplace way : 

“ I’m tired with the walk, Simon. Could you let me have a cup 
of tea ?” 

The simple question made a curious anticlimax to Simon’s expec- 
tations. He had looked for an outburst of some sort, for some 
speech or appeal pitched in a dramatic key, and this homely request 
brought his feet to the ground with a beneficial jar. Then Kate 
smiled at him, and the ice was broken for the present. 

He walked through to the kitchen, and Mrs. Venn, who had, per- 
haps, been enough with young ladies to foresee this inevitable request 
of Kate’s, returned with him almost immediately, bearing a tray with 
a black teapot, some massive slices of bread-and-butter, and thick 
whity-brown teacups, such as matched the homely character of the 
little parlor. 

Kate at once turned round to the table and began to pour out 
the tea with a matter-of-course air, which rather astonished her 
host, now that his faculties were completely awakened, 


197 


“\ou like two lumps, Simon, I know. Have you got any mar- 
malade in this Castle Dismal of yours?” 

Mrs. Venn, watching the lady’s lips, needed no interpretation by 
slate, and quickly fetched and opened a pot of marmalade, placed on 
a big plate patterned with staring blue. She was pleased, in a mild, 
unemotional sort of fashion, at seeing her master entertain a guest, 
but her feelings had, for a quarter of a century, ceased to be of 
a vivid order. Simon had chosen her as a person as nearly ap- 
proaching to the wooden as flesh and blood could be found. 
The poor old woman had, indeed, reached the stage when a settled 
wage and a decent Are made the sum of her demands; a lower 
denominator to the fraction of life even Simon could not hope to 
compass. 

Kate observed the philosopher furtively as she drank her tea. 
The gloom had settled down upon him again, and he looked stub- 
born as well as sad. 

“ We haven’t shaken hands yet, Simon,” she remarked, when the 
silence seemed to have grown dense as a fog. 

“ No, I believe not.” 

This was an unpromising beginning, but Kate knew the man she 
had to deal with, and was resolved not to stir from the fireside until 
she had forced a little conversation from the hermit. She planted 
herself more firmly in her chair and essayed him again. 

“ I don’t see what is to prevent our going through the ceremony, 
Simon, do you ?” 

Simon only stared at the fire more stubbornly than before. 

“I don’t see why I should be treated as an enemy, for” — she 
paused a moment that her voice might be quite firm — “ for I believe 
nothing of what they have said against yon. I believe the accusa- 
tion to be'either a miserable blunder, or part of some plotter’s scheme 
to save himself.” 

He smiled faintly. 

“You always were a rebel against public opinion, Kate.” 

“ Well, put it down to sheer obstinacy, if you will, but let me 
have the credit of it — and shake hands.” 

“ Very well — if it gives you any pleasure.” 

“ It does,” she said, giving him her hand ; “ it is a pleasure to shake 
hands with one whose transcendent obstinacy is like an ocean beside 
my poor puddle of self-will. Oh, Simon, Simon,” she continued, 
suddenly throwing aside her mocking tone, “it makes me wretched 
to see you here ! How long do you intend to keep up this miser- 


198 


able farce ? Are yon going to spoil your whole life by way of grati- 
fying your insane pride?” 

Then Simon, moved by her friendly warmth, began to let his 
numbed heart speak. 

“ It doesn’t matter much what course I take, Kate, for, once awak- 
ened to the realities of life, one knows that nothing’s worth troub- 
ling about.” 

“ A sudden rush from one pole to the other is not an awakening,” 
cried Kate. “ But you always were in extremes, Simon ; for all your 
brains, you never had mental balance, somehow. To you every man 
is a hero or a scoundrel, and the world a seventh heaven or a Ge- 
henna, according to your mood. But go on — tell me more about 
yourself.” 

“My life’s nothing but a weariness,” he cried, with a sudden pour- 
ing forth of pent emotion, which carried Kate along like a tide. 
“ I’ve wasted my life grubbing like a fool among weeds, and tak- 
ing them for flowers. I tell you there are no such things as human 
love and brotherhood ; they are nothing but abstractions, creations 
of the mind, wherewith human nature has been invested by man’s 
fancy, as inanimate nature with joy, or sadness, or peace. Self-love 
and self-interest one may look for, and find with certainty ; and I 
believe a journey through a million inhabited planets would yield 
nothing to the searcher. Listen now, Kate. Do you know that the 
element carbon, the chief constituent of vegetable life, the element 
invariably present in animal life, and of transcendent importance 
throughout our planet, is proved to be also a constituent of the 
comets? — in other words, to be present throughout the length, 
breadth, and height of the material universe ? Well, I believe self- 
interest to have as universal a spread. You would find man, or what- 
ever created thing corresponds to man, the same mean creature upon 
all the billions of planets plunged in the depths of space. You’d find 
self-interest the leading motive, the only real motive, that drives life 
along in the sun-systems placed as far beyond Sirius as Sirius is from 
our own. Self-love is a tolling bell, whose tones ring through the 
universe — the knell of human happiness throughout time and space.” 

“ I don’t believe it.” — Kate stood up and gesticulated, driven out 
of all dignity by Simon’s excitement — “ I don’t believe it. If other 
planets are inhabited, I believe they are full of beauty and happi- 
ness ; that our weariness and pain and littleness are unknown to 
them ; that all our better imaginings may there be glorious realities; 
that there man is not separated from his Maker, and the still better 


199 


state that awaits him, by the miserable web that shuts us in ; that 
our planet is the only one where man is condemned to look through 
a dark glass for threescore years and ten !” 

“ Tush, tush !” cried Simon, hotly ; “ there’s nothing on the other 
side of the glass but the freezing ether of space !” 

“ Well, I don’t exactly know what space is, or haven’t a notion 
what ether means,” said Kate, with a sigh ; “ so it is useless to at- 
tempt arguing with a learned person like you. In fact, I’m a 
wretched bungler altogether, Simon, and this visit of mine seems 
likely to be a failure. I came here to try and cheer you, and 
how can I manage that when you do nothing but entangle me 
among planets and sun-systems, and things that I know nothing 
about ?” 

“ I say again that, just as carbon — ” 

“ I don’t want to hear any more about carbon, and don’t believe 
you understand anything about it. To begin with, you said it was 
an important element in animal as well as vegetable life. Now, 
whoever heard such nonsense as that? Do you mean to assert that 
I’m made of the same stuff as a cabbage ?” 

“ You’re a very human - hearted sort of vegetable, Kate, any- 
way,” he laughed ; “ and don’t distress yourself with the notion 
that your visit has been a failure ; for, in truth, you’ve done me a 
deal of good, and I’ve been a churl not to let you see it. You’re # 
the only soul who has been near me, except old Squire Rush, who 
was driven off ignominiously by my she - dragon. Come, let us talk 
about something more cheerful. Tell me about yourself ; I want to 
realize that my own ego does not comprise the whole universe. Has 
Julius Rush been down on short leave lately?” 

In her softened mood Kate was not averse to dwelling a little 
upon her own troubles ; and the twilight having now fallen outside, 
the dim firelight invited confidence. 

“No, I have not seen Captain Rush since — since that dinner- 
party at Hollacomb. He was very distant and unfriendly then, 
Simon. I doubt if he will ever say a cordial word to me again.” 

“Your treatment of his father has cut him up, Kate. You 
couldn’t have chosen a more certain way of killing friendship than 
that.” 

Kate looked unusually meek, as though conscious of guilt, and 
rather anxious to be lectured than not. She drew her chair a little 
nearer to Simon, and sighed gently. If he would but talk a little 
of Julius Rush, and give her some hope that this flouted admirer 


200 


of hers was not alienated forever, Kate felt that she would go away 
a good deal cheered. 

But Simon, not in the least comprehending a woman’s mood, had 
nothing more to say. 

She sighed again, and he regretted his blunder in having men- 
tioned Rush’s name. 

“ Well, I dare say you didn’t mean to hurt his feelings,” he said, 
kindly, “and I won’t bully you for not liking a man just because 
he is my friend. As I said before, let us talk of something cheer- 
ful.” 

Poor Kate, having ventured as far as maiden pride would let her, 
had to give up hope for the present ; but she wished Simon had 
studied the human countenance a little more, and the face of the 
heavens a little less. She rose to go, and, turning from the fire, 
glanced towards the glazed door at the other end of the room. 
In doing so she started violently, uttering a suppressed cry of 
alarm. 

“ Why, Kate, what has come to you ?” 

“ There was a man’s head close to the glass ; he was staring in 
at us. Keep back, Simon — keep in the shade of the bookcase.” 

She pressed him back with both hands, breathing short and 
trembling nervously. By the time Simon had got free and hurried 
» to the door, the man, whoever he might be, had vanished in the 
evening gloom. 

“ I’m glad of it — I’m glad of it !” she cried, rather hysterically 
for her; “ he might have attacked you.” 

Simon laughed cheerfully, and began to search for her fur boa. 

“ Some one passing down the canal path saw the firelight aud had 
a fit of curiosity — that’s all about it, Kate.” 

“ Do you think so ?” she asked, doubtfully. “ I do wish you 
would quit this lonely place. I know you have enemies, and — ” 

“ Rubbish ! my dear Kate. Come, let us start, for I’m going to 
see you most of the way home.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


The face of which Kate had caught a glimpse through the glazed 
door belonged to no casual passer-by, but to a man who had been 
prowling about the farm and neighboring woods night after night 
ever since Secretan’s arrival — one who was, in truth, far more an 
object of pity than the lonely philosopher whose steps he was dog- 

ging- 

Simon, the pursued, would probably regain his mental balance 
and resume the routine of- a rational person sooner or later; but 
Ezekiel Doidge, the pursuer, was in far more hopeless case. The 
man’s previous history, his bodily temperament, and the dead-weight 
of circumstances, were all combined in the work of hardening and 
stamping in the craze which now possessed him. He had domi- 
neered so long over those about him, had established such a reputa- 
tion of superiority to the weaknesses of his neighbors, that, now 
trouble was come, human sympathy stood aloof from him ; no one 
dared to do him the kindness of forcing his confidence. 

And the only person into whose ear he felt minded to pour the 
“ perilous stuff ” that filled his heart was his sympathetic doctor, 
Terence Clancy, who, instead of giving him an opening for that 
salutary process, always contrived to hand over this patient to his 
assistant. 

Growing bodily weakness, too, was lessening his power of resist- 
ance to the surges of morbid thought. He would do no work wor- 
thy of the name ; he was too restless and irritable even to superin- 
tend the work of others ; and so poor Ezekiel’s heart grew blacker 
as his vital force waned. 

The tragic death of his sweetheart had gone far to craze the man ; 
days and nights of miserable brooding had since then so stirred the 
gloomy depths of his nature that wholesome thinking was becoming 
impossible. His mind was always working round a weary circle of 
which Mary’s shameful end was the centre. He conceived that his 
own harassing jealousy had first pressed her into the crooked path, 
that his want of vigilance had made her continuance in it possible; 
and now it seemed that his plain duty, the only purpose for which 


202 


be ought to live, was to revenge her death. There was none else, 
her father being old and infirm, to see to the punishment of the man 
who had ruined her. 

At first Ezekiel had been satisfied with the disgrace into which 
his efforts had plunged Simon ; but very soon the gnawing began 
afresh. The retirement to the farm was a mere passing whim, he 
considered; the result, no doubt, of a quarrel with his father. But 
that would be made up in due course, and then Secretan would come 
forth to resume his old position, the passing disgrace being slipped 
off like a worn-out garment. 

But poor shattered Ezekiel was not cut out of the stuff Nature 
uses for the making of assassins, so that he could in no wise bring 
his mind — except in theory — to the cutting-off of his enemy in cold 
blood. 

The very facilities offered by Secretan’s lonely ramblings in the 
woods helped to make such a task an impossibility. He seemed to 
have none of the characteristic fears of a guilty conscience ; nay 
more, his apparent blindness to his own danger induced in Doidge a 
hesitation amounting almost to doubt of his guilt. 

There was no difficulty whatever in dogging Secretan about the 
woodland paths at dusk ; and more than once Doidge had looked 
in upon him lighted by lamp or firelight, as he had done this even- 
ing. Yet his gun had remained unloaded ; the would-be avenger 
had never once so much as taken a cartridge from his pocket. He 
would scorn himself, and curse his own cowardice when he got 
home of a night, worn out with excitement and fatigue ; and then 
would start off on the morrow, to follow, and track, and slink 
about, knowing full well that he would once more return with noth- 
ing done. 

Thus, at the end of three weeks, Doidge was more than half be- 
side himself with the recurring nightly strain ; but had settled in 
his mind that only in one of two cases could he bring himself to 
draw trigger upon his enemy. Either he must come upon Secretan 
at the very spot where Mary’s body was found, and find plain proofs 
of his guilt in the man’s face ; or he must take the train to Lym- 
port and force the truth out of Joyce Melladew, probably the only 
living person in whom Mary had confided. Until every vestige of 
doubt should be cleared away, brain and hand would continue to 
refuse their appointed task. 

The glimpse he caught of Miss Tredethlyn donning furs and 
wraps, and of Simon preparing to bear her company, sent him 


203 


reeling away, half dazed, into the darkness. For fear fathers a 
thought quite as often as a wish does, and Doidge’s fear now begot 
the notion that this visit of Kate’s was made to a repentant sinner, 
that she would never have continued such friendly relations with a 
hardened man who had confessed nothing. He conceived that she 
had come to soothe Secretan’s remorse, that as they walked away 
together there would be some spoken admission of his unhappy 
condition ; and then — then there would remain only for Doidge the 
fulfilment of what he considered a sacred duty. 

For, weak and sore smitten^ as the man was, he would not then 
shirk the course which nights and days of hard thinking had laid 
down as the right one. He slunk after the pair down the dark lane 
between the leafless hedges, and out into the high-road. 

Once or twice he got near enough to hear their words. Simon 
was talking astronomy, telling Kate of the wonders of the Saturn- 
ian system ; he spoke of nothing but the stars in their courses, 
while his companion listened, only throwing in a word now and 
then. 

The revulsion of feeling caused by this innocent talk came as a 
shock to Ezekiel. He was glad to halt and rest upon a heap of 
stones, and allow some of his despair to float away on the night 
wind. He could ask no greater relief than the discovery of Secre- 
tan’s innocence, and such a consummation seemed now to be grow- 
ing more probable. True, were it proved that he had hitherto been 
hunting a false trail, his next duty would be to start upon a fresh 
one ; but there would be an interim of rest, and — this had come to 
be his true hope now — he might never discover the right man at all. 
The pursuit of his monomania had so broken Doidge that he longed 
only to have his task remitted altogether. 

His principal desire now being to gain fresh confirmation of his 
hope, he decided to station himself at the head of the lane leading 
up to the farm, and there await Secretan’s return. What course to 
pursue when Simon reappeared he could not yet decide, but he was 
full of a vague desire to have another good look at Simon’s face 
when he thought himself unobserved, and of a vague hope of de- 
riving some fresh consolation from being near him. 

Accordingly the watcher retraced his steps almost cheerfully, and 
ensconced himself among some fern and bramble at the head of the 
short lane. 

The long lean stalks of brake - fern were broken off short here 
and there, like stubble, but otherwhere were hung with tressy 


204 


masses of frond damply drooping, which, with hrambles still show- 
ing a sprinkling of dun purple leaves, afforded adequate cover. 

Doidge waited long, but the suspense was too mild to be weari- 
some. The drift of his thoughts became more cheerful as the time 
went by, for it took but a little thing to sway his mind now. He 
had deduced an added probability of Simon’s guilt from the mere 
fact of Kate’s presence at the farm, and now inferred his innocence 
from the mere ability to talk cheerfully upon his favorite topic. 
Logic had ceased to have weight with poor Doidge ; he was no 
better than a straw blown hither and thither by successive gusts of 
nervous excitement. 

By the time the moon had risen several degrees, and the thin 
web of clouds had grown thinner, he heard the creak and rumble 
of a farm -cart in the road below. It seemed to stop for a few 
seconds at the lower end of the lane ; then, very soon, he heard foot- 
steps. 

His heart began to flutter again ; the cold, which he had noticed 
but little hitherto, was now penetrating to the marrow of his bones, 
lie peered through crannied thicknesses of bramble, and there 
was now light enough reflected from the white smoothness of the 
lane to define clearly the approaching figures. For Secretan was not 
alone. He carried a child upon his shoulder, and was stooping to 
catch the words of a woman who walked beside him. They moved 
at a snail’s pace. 

In one quick agitated glance the watcher recognized Joyce Mella- 
dew. The sight of her gave him a fresh stab of fear. Joyce must 
know the absolute truth as to Mary, and upon what other business 
could she possibly have come to see Simon ? Doidge was already 
sliding back into despair. He thought that any moment now might 
be Secretan’s last. 

With shivering hand he put two cartridges into bis gun — “ One 
for him, and one for me,” he muttered, m a crazed wliisper. 

Upon reaching the gate which shut off the lane from the grassy 
slope of the knoll, Simon seated the child upon the top bar, and 
Joyce took possession of her. Then he stepped back a pace or two, 
standing with his broad chest not four yards from Doidge’s gun- 
muzzle. 

“Still asleep?” he exclaimed; “why, nothing will wake the little 
creature now, Joyce. Last time I saw you she wouldn’t go to sleep 
for love or money.” 

“ She’s very tired, sir. My little Rose-bud has done a great deal 


205 


to-day. I’m afeard you’ll have to let us sleep on your sofa to-night, 
Mr. Simon, for I’m a trifle tired myself — and there’s something I must 
say to you before I leave.” 

“ Why, of course, we shall manage to put you up, Joyce.” 

“You’ll be at the farm for a few days longer, anyway ?” 

“Yes, for another week; after that my plans are quite un- 
settled.” 

Joyce panted a little and leaned against the gate, supporting the 
child’s weight on it. 

“Your being here at all is a mystery to me at present, Mr. Simon ; 
for of all the mad freaks that have ever come into your mind, this 
bearing of another man’s sins is the most astounding. Why don’t 
you tell the truth and blow this traitor to atoms? I will myself to- 
morrow, if you persist in this madness. I’ll go into Chillington High 
Street and proclaim him. ...” 

Not a syllable more did Doidge hear, for at this point he fell 
back, fainting, among the dead leaves, and before he recovered they 
had passed on. Nor did he wish to hear more now ; the truth was 
ready to his hand, his Angers could close over it at any moment 
— for this one night he could aflEord to allow himself rest and peace. 



• V 


CHAPTER XXVII 


In comparing himself with the gentler half of creation, man will 
sometimes set forth — in a condescending, judicial way, with due 
sense of his own magnanimity — the one or two minor points of 
woman’s admitted superiority. After stripping her of justice, hon- 
esty, generosity, and other garments which he has appropriated for 
himself, he kindly leaves her with such flimsy underclothing as may 
be woven of sympathy, unselflshness, and a few other trifling woman’s 
graces. But he seldom realizes how supreme a barrenness must needs 
ensue upon the loss of these mere femininities. 

“ How are you, old fellow ?” he asks, by way of morning greeting ; 
and before your first reply-syllable is formed, proceeds to a minute 
exposition of his own troubles, bodily and financial. For, judging 
you by himself, he shrewdly conceives that he must be first in the 
field in order to get a hearing at all. 

It seldom strikes him that, if woman were to borrow his habit of 
selfishness, the wear of life would be wellnigh insupportable to all 
but the healthy and prosperous. For, though you may find scores 
who will accept harsh treatment from the world in general with 
tolerable fortitude, there are few indeed who can bear up against a 
friend’s indifference to their troubles. The easy acquiescence in 
your misfortunes of those from whom you look for something better 
has a unique sting of its own ; and the most resolute contemner of 
women will admit that it comes most often from members of his 
own sex. 

Mrs. French-Chichester used to say, in cynical moments, “ Blessed 
is he that expecteth little from male friends — most blessed is he that 
expecteth nothing. Men don’t ‘ sit and hear each other groan,’ as 
the poet says ; the voice of their own groaning prevents that.” And 
perhaps such an indictment is not without a grain or two of justifi- 
cation. 

To consider, for instance, Secretan and his present companion. 

He is himself a philanthropist, a man who has given years of 
study to the question of how to better his fellow’s condition, but he 
does not now perceive that the woman at his side is sick unto death. 


207 


and can hardly support herself upright. He accepts with calmness 
her stoical explanation that she is “a bit tired.” In such cases the 
kindest of men are blind as a gate-post. 

Joyce, on the other hand, is, and always has been, a wilful woman. 
Through wilfulness she lost her home at the Hall, through wilfulness 
married Sergeant Melladew against the advice of all her friends ; by 
wilfulness, in all probability, helped a middling bad man on the road 
to perdition. Yet she thinks more of Simon at this moment than 
of herself; hates to give him trouble; staggers along in pain and 
weariness rather than worry him with a single sigh or complaint. 

Arrived at the steps, however, about half-way up the knoll, she 
was compelled to sit down and rest. 

Simon carried the sleeping child in, laid her down before the fire, 
and returned, whistling softly. 

“I wouldn’t sit here long, Joyce; there’s danger of your catch- 
ing cold.” 

She smiled a wan smile, but said nothing. 

“Come on. I’ll help you up the steps if you’re tired.” 

“ I’m afraid — I sha’n’t be able to move just yet.” 

Then the weakness of her voice struck him. He lifted her in his 
arms, bore her through the glazed door, and laid her upon a straight 
horsehair thing understood by Mr. Pethick, its late owner, to be a sofa. 

Then, being freed from the necessity of further effort for the 
present, Joyce grew a little fretful. 

“ Mr. Simon ?” she said, querulously. 

“ What is it, Joyce ? Anything I can do for you ? Are you 
hungry after your journey ?” 

“Yes, I am hungry. I want my Rose-bud.” 

“Eh? She’s all right down there by the fire. I want you to 
test, not to fidget with the baby.” 

“ I can’t rest; give me my little one — I will have her." 

Simon laughed, for Joyce’s peremptory tone carried him back to 
old nursery days, when he, a giant boy of eight years old, had been 
ordered about by a little creature hardly up to his waist-belt. 

“ Give me my baby-girl,” she repeated, with a weak tear or two 
on her cheek; whereupon he hastily fetched the sleeping child, laid 
her beside her mother, and wheeled the sofa round before the blazing 
logs. 

Joyce clasped the little creature with a long sigh of pleasure, care- 
fully removed the outer wraps, spread the little limbs over herself, 
and laid the child-head upon the mother-heart. 


208 


The philosopher watched the pair curiously. He had come to 
this hermitage in order to be quit of the human race ; but was now 
perhaps learning more of the human heart than the practice of much 
philanthropy could have taught him. 

“ You look ill, Joyce, now I come to observe you closely ?” 

“Oh, I’m well again now. You must excuse my weakness; but 
she and I are to part so soon.” 

“ Will your work oblige you to leave her? I should have thought 
the doctor would have prohibited any close application ?” 

Joyce smiled again, with something like the old gleam in her eye. 

“ He says I shall soon be out of his hands, Mr. Simon.” 

“Come, that’s good hearing. You’ll soon be all right again ; and 
if you need rest while recovering I must see what can be done about 
your little girl.” 

“ Would you — would you really ?” said the mother, half raising 
herself ; “ would you — But I’m afraid to say it yet ; no, no, I’ll 
hang on to my hope a little longer. There’s a kind of warmth 
spreading over me now, and I won’t put the fire out just directly.” 

“ I don’t quite understand you, Joyce ; but I think you should 
rest. Suppose I summon Mrs. Venn, and let her make you some 
broth or something, and then you might sleep ?” 

“ No, thank you ; I don’t want her here. Mr. Simon, if you were 
going to have an operation, which might cure, but would far more 
likely kill, would you put it off, or make the plunge and get it 
over ?” 

There was a yearning in the woman’s voice which touched Simon, 
though he could make no guess at its meaning. 

“ My dear Joyce, you mystify me. What can I do for you ?” 

“You can make my few remaining weeks a paradise, and let me 
die in peace, blessing you,” she answered, in a strained heart- 
whisper. 

“Tell me.how.” 

“No — no; let me dream a little longer. I’ve given over the 
habit so long that ’tis like a childish treat come back. I won’t tell 
you — I won’t. If I do tell you, will you promise not to say ‘ No ’ 
to-night, so that my hope may dwindle gradually, instead o’ bein’ 
killed by a single word ?” 

“ I will do anything in my power to give you a little ease, Joyce. 
Your suffering hurts me. What can I do for you ?” 

She clasped her child closer, and turned two burning eyes upon 
him. 


209 


“Sir, do you mind how you used to beat your elder brother, 
Harao, in the nursery when you quarrelled, and how Sir Harao 
would beat you afterwards ?” 

“Yes, poor old Hamo ! I was always master — but we used to 
make it up afterwards.” 

“ And how I used to rage and storm at Sir Harao for touching of 
you ? I always took your part, and we were always good comrades, 
weren’t we? Well, I want you to take my part against Fate now. 
Listen, Mr. Simon, and bear in mind your promise to give me to- 
night free — or I can say nothing. The doctor says I’m quite shat- 
tered ; he gives me five or six weeks more o’ life, at the outside. 
This journey to-day will probably knock off three — say I have 
about two weeks left. Two days would suffice — two hours, if I 
could but get you on my side !” 

Joyce paused for breath. Her intense earnestness oppressed her 
listener like a physical pain. 

“ But I don’t wish,” she resumed, with anxious haste, “ to stir up 
your feelin’s about myself. I’ve been afeard of death just like other 
people ; but fear gets stale and worn out in time, and mine’s pretty 
well threadbare by now. I could die without making much fuss; 
but for — Oh, you can guess ! Surely even a man can guess !” 

“You dread parting from your little one, Joyce?” 

“ Ah, ’tisn’t the parting merely ; there’s something a thousand 
times worse than that! ’Tis the leavin’ her alone — motherless, 
friendless, alone — in a world that I’ve found bad enough! My 
blossom ! my blossom !” 

“In whose charge do you intend to leave her, Joyce?” 

“ I don’t know ; I don’t know,” she repeated, patting the child 
with her quivering hands. “ My husband’s relations are offended 
with me ; they will have none of my child. I have no relations left 
of my own but that leathern-hearted house-keeper of yours at the 
Hall. She has offered to take my Rose. Mrs. Henley will not let 
her hunger — except for love; will see that she’s well fed and 
clothed — and miserable. The little one will be brought up to hate 
my memory. When she grows big her mother will be held up to 
her as a warning, and happiness will be kept from her like a 
poison !” 

“ I begin to understand — ” 

“ Don’t understand yet, sir. I’m not half prepared. I will talk 
to you for an hour before I let you understand.” There was silence 
for a few minutes. Her next whisper seemed to pierce the silence 
14 


210 


like sharp steel. “ Oh, do you understand already ? Have I spoilt 
ray chance through over-haste? Mr. Simon, I entreat you not to let 
her suffer for my clumsiness.” 

“ Joyce,” he said, in a troubled voice, “ who am I to undertake 
the guardianship of a little child? A man disgraced and imbit- 
tered, and — ” 

“ A man,” she cried with fierce haste, as though trying to clutch 
him with eyes and voice, “ whom I would choose out of all the 
world, one who has justice and duty written on his heart. A wom- 
an might neglect her, unless she really loved my Rose ; but you, even 
though you hated her, would but do your duty by her the more 
strictly. I don’t ask you to raise her. Bring her up to the hum- 
blest station, so that you be but responsible for her. I know she 
must be something of a burden to you; but I’m a selfish woman in 
sore need. And, sir, you’re one marked out to bear other people’s 
burdens. You would have her on your mind ; would see that she 
had love and care as well as daily bread. And, sir, she’s such a 
lovin’ little thing ! But now I’m gettin’ weak, and can’t say out a 
thousandth part of what was in my mind. Would you turn me 
over a little, so as I mayn’t see you, Mr. Simon ? It will be such a 
torture to watch your face, for I know you can’t decide in a mo- 
ment.” 

“ I will go out into the air for a short time, Joyce, and consider 
whether I should really be doing you a service by undertaking this 
trust.” 

Simon opened the glazed door hastily and was gone. There was 
no sound in the room but that of the child’s regular breathing, and 
a faint occasional crackle from the hearth. 

When Simon re-entered, the sick woman could hardly draw breath. 
She lay shaking, with closed eyes and set teeth. 

He had taken but a step into the room when his voice came to 
her like a voice from heaven, and his words fell warm upon her 
frozen heart. 

“ Joyce, I will take your little one.” 

She clasped his hand when he drew near, and kissed it, and placed 
it on her baby’s head. 

“ May the God I’ve been so bitter against these many years bless 
you !” she whispered. “ And mayhap even a rebel’s blessing may 
go for something, sir, when it comes from a bursting heart !” 

In this manner it came about that Joyce passed from suspense 
into mental ease and happiness. 


211 


It has been said that the mere cessation of severe bodily pain con- 
stitutes great happiness ; but perhaps a deeper beatitude attends upon 
the relief from gnawing suspense of mind. In such a case it is im- 
possible to do full justice to the welling blessedness of the moment. 
One is tempted to look back and be a little wretched again, so as to 
revel the deeper in heart-easing relief. 

Simon seemed not merely to have given the sick woman a fresh 
lease of life, but to have shed upon her an aftershine of her merry, 
mischievous youth. She was anxious now for the child to awake in 
order to show her off to the new guardian ; and even in this minor 
matter her wish was quickly gratified. 

The child began to move and stretch, to fumble vaguely with her 
hands, to stuff both fists into her eyes, and finally to sit up, wide awake. 

Simon began for the first time in his life to examine with special 
interest a little child. Miss Rose also scrutinized him, though with 
a frank unconcern that rather astonished him. Upon venturing to 
approach her, however, he was driven away with contumely. 

“Go ’way, go ’way — naughty!” cried tl\e little creature with the 
confidence of a grown person rebuking a beggar. Then she looked 
at her mother with a chuckle of triumph, and both began to laugh 
at him openly. 

“You mustn’t be too easily snubbed, sir,” Joyce remarked, wip- 
ing the tears from her cheeks; “for she’s just such an impudent 
little hussy as her mother was before her.” 

“ Perhaps she’s hungry ?” suggested Simon, as though struck 
with a bright idea. “ I don’t know exactly what children eat ; but 
would some cold beef meet the case, do you think ?” 

“ Oh yes — with plenty of pickles !” Joyce laughed again hyster- 
ically, then put up her hand with a deprecating gesture. “You 
must forgive me, sir ; but I’m so happy that I’m forced to make 
game o’ somebody. No, no, Mr. Simon, a child of twenty months 
isn’t fed on beef and pickles ; but happen your house-keeper would 
poach her an egg.” 

“ Eggy !” shouted the child, with a wriggle of satisfaction ; and 
Simon promptly went in search of Mrs. Venn. 

When the egg arrived he expected to see it demolished in a twin- 
kling; but he had not quite mastered the philosophy of babyhood 
yet. The child was too much attracted by the pattern of the plate 
to pay much heed to what was upon it. 

“Oh, pitty, pitty !” she kept repeating, followiiig the lines with a 
tiny forefinger. 


212 


“Shall I give your egg to Mr. Secretan, then?” asked Joyce. 

“ Sekkitan — then,” echoed Rose ; then slid down to the floor and 
began to caress her mother with a child’s bewildering irrelevance. 
“Oh, poor, poor!” she said, stroking Joyce’s cheek. “Not w-e-11?” 

This, being her longest sentence, was repeated many times in a 
quaint, drawling fashion. But at length she was cozened into tak- 
ing some mouthfuls of bread dipped in the egg, first insisting upon 
offering each one to “Sekkitan — then,” as she began from this mo- 
ment to call Simon. 

After this it was high time to play. She slid down to the floor 
again and began to paddle to and fro, carrying a stool about in an 
anxious manner, and finally depositing it on a chair and carefully 
covering it with her mother’s shawl. 

Joyce, seeing that Simon was becoming interested, and regarding 
the little creature as quite a new phenomenon, could allow her newly- 
won ease of mind to spread and deepen. 

“You’ll find a lot of human nature wrapped up in that small par- 
cel, Mr. Simon,” she said^ presently. “Just put the other stool on 
the top of hers, now, and see how she’ll take it.” 

Simon did so. The second stool was at once thrown down with 
a squeak of anger from Miss Rose. Then, as she seemed bent upon 
collecting all the small movable things about the room, he offered to 
help, and got dismissed with cries of “ ’Way, ’way !” for his pains. 

Presently she halted before the glass door of the bookcase, point- 
ing and saying, “ Pitty bookee 1” 

Not having the key about him, Simon offered her other books, 
only to be rebuffed once more. 

The mother regarded the pair with eyes yearning and hopeful, 
and a smile of deep peace. The child, standing and pointing impe- 
riously, looked very quaint and pretty. Her small face was upturned 
to the big gentleman, her bright eyes looked eagerly from under the 
tumbled fair curls, the short, crisp little features were alight with 
piquant impatience. 

The new guardian was of course compelled to find the key, and 
next to take down one by one a whole row of Mr. Pethick’s science 
primers. When the last one was down, she suddenly lost all her 
interest in books, and became athirst for fresh diversion. 

Here was Simon’s opportunity ; and his instruction had proceeded 
so far that he was able to grasp it. Sitting on the floor, he invited 
the little one to climb upon his shoulder; and, seeing nothing new 
to be taken up or put down, she kindly consented. 


213 


Thereupon ensued a triumphal progress. He marched up and 
down the room with the child grasping his hair, and squeaking, bab- 
bling, and kicking to her heart’s content. Her effervescing delight 
increased at every stride, and Simon felt the strange decynicizing 
charm of the child-nature working in him like an anodyne. It was 
a- complete conquest for the time being, and one more note was thus 
added to the mother’s content. 

After this the frisky little creature was tired enough to be glad of 
a rest. She placed both stools by her mother’s sofa, and laid a 
shawl across them with much careful adjustment; then sat down 
gingerly, and leaned against the reclining figure, muttering sleepily, 
“ Poor — poor, n’ well !” 

Joyce, after caressing the small head, and whispering endearments 
into the tiny ear, asked Mr. Secretan to take a seat near her, explain- 
ing that she had much to talk about, but little voice to do it with. 

Then she asked him for a full account of how he had come to 
take another man’s disgrace upon his shoulders. 

As Joyce knew the truth about Clancy, the promise of silence was 
of course void, and Simon was free to explain the circumstances that 
had led up to it and for how long the compact was to last. 

“ I see, I see,” she muttered, when he had delivered himself thus 
far. “You’ve given me only a clipped version of the affair, Mr. 
Simon, as I know very well ; but I perceive that the whole transac- 
tion was most like you both. It was like him to work upon you 
when he found himself in a hole, most like you to be cozened into 
a promise of such insane generosity. Your friend has wrecked you 
pretty thoroughly for the time being, Mr. Simon ; and but for me, 
it’s like enough you’d never float off again. There’s no one but me 
to pick up the pieces, d’ye see ?” 

“ How so, Joyce?” 

“ I’m the only livin’ person as can swear to the truth about poor 
Mary and her lover. You’m out of court yourself, don’t you see? 
Having acquiesced in a lie for the best part of a month, the truth 
wouldn’t come from you with any sort o’ weight ; your word wouldn’t 
overbear his in public estimation. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?” 

“ But you don’t think—” 

“ I don’t thinh^ but I know that Mr. Terence Clancy ’ll fight tooth 
and nail rather than confess anythin’. He meant to do so, mind 
you, when he made the promise. I don’t say that he didn’t mean 
what he said at the time ; but does a weak man like that ever stick 
to a difficult promise unless he’s drove to it ? You made things too 


214 


easy for him, sir ; you opened a gate in the hedge, and he plunged 
through pretty quick, and will find plenty of excuses for stayin’ on 
the sunny side o’t.” 

Simon sat silent and amazed at this view of the matter. The sug- 
gestion that Terence would break his word now, and turn round 
upon his rescuer, was too painful to be harbored. 

But Joyce went quietly on as though speaking of certainties rather 
than probabilities. 

“He will fight tooth and nail. The man who has let you bear 
this for a month would let you bear it all your life — or through a 
dozen lives, if you had ’em — rather than take it on his own shoul- 
ders. What’s to hinder him — gratitude? I believe when you set 
him up in his profession his gratitude took the form of robbery of 
your lady-love. Ah, gratitude’s a mighty tender plant ! A child’s 
breath will kill it. And if he shirked discovery before, how will he 
like it now ? For, remember, now that he’s once let you suffer for 
him, discovery would mean absolute ruin to him, with his wife, his 
friends, his patients, and every one else besides.” 

She saw that her listener writhed under her words, that the truth 
about Clancy ;was going into him like a sword. But knowing that 
there was no time to be lost, she was anxious to stir Simon to ac- 
tion. 

“ You had best send for a magistrate, or other competent person, 
to-morrow, Mr. Simon, an’ I’ll make oath, or affidavit, or whatever 
’tis called, as to the truth o’ this matter. I’d like to get it done to- 
morrow, for I’m growin’ weaker. Fact is, you’ve taken a load off 
me, and I don’t seem to care about more strugglin’, and people in 
my state are apt to snuff out sudden-like as soon as the call for fur- 
ther effort ceases. Think a minute what your position would be 
without my evidence to back you. In a few days’ time you’d be 
free to tell your story, and he’d deny every word of it on his oath. 
Then they’d say, ‘ Why did you tamper with the truth ? why did 
you let the lie bide so long?’ 

“ There’d be not a tittle of evidence agen’ him but your bare word ; 
not one in ten would believe you. Mayhap his wife might, knowing 
you so well, and gettin’ to know him a bit by now, I should think ; 
and like enough you’d spoil her life — hers for whose sake you’ve 
bore this. For I know that ’tis so, though you gave me all your mo- 
tives but the true un. And, lookee, sir, a vain attempt to set up 
your innocence would break you worse than you’re broke now. Mr. 
Simon — I tell you this plain an’ straight an’ solemn as if I was in 


215 


church— you must either begin the fight the moment you’re free, and 
with my sworn evidence to back you, or else hold your peace for- 
ever !” 

“ Your supposition as to his treachery is horrible, horrible,” mut- 
tered Simon. “ I can’t bring myself to accept it.” 

“ Put yourself in his place, sir. You’ve never known what it is to have 
to think about daily bread ; but think what professional ruin means to 
him. He may feel qualmish, but he’ll fight like a wounded beast. 
And, upon my word, you’ve a’most drove him to it by givin’ in to 
him so at the beginning. You must fetch in a parson or a magis- 
trate to-morrow without fail. Why, sir, the more I think on’t, the 
greater seems the crisis. What o’ the Hall and the lands — your pat- 
rimony? There’s no entail, is there?” 

“No. But what has that to do with it?” 

“ Mr. Simon, I’m loath to make you bitter, but ’tis my firm belief 
that if you don’t right yourself Sir Hamo ’ll cut you out of Monks 
Damerel. A better father might do it; he would to a certainty. 
Think over it all to-night. I’m a bit tired now, and my voice is 
goin’, so I must just tell you my plans, and then get some sleep. 
I’ve one thing to confess — that I did rather hope to be took bad 
here, thinkin’ so to further my Blossom’s chance with you. I ha’n’t 
a ghost of a fear that you’ll go back from your word, so I like to 
plump out the fraud, such as it was. As ’tis, I sha’n’t stay here to 
bother you after to-morrow. I’m perfectly at ease now, and shall 
get myself carted over to the town, and hire a decent little room 
there to die in ; an’ I know you’ll have my precious sent over to see 
me every day ? But don’t be pityin’ me too much, sir, for nothin’ 
can rob me of the peace of mind that you’ve given me. . . . And, sir, 
happen you’ll be talkin’ about me to her sometimes when I’m gone? 
Yes, yes; I know you’ll do that.” 

“ Poor — poor,” murmured the baby, sleepily. 

“Ah, she’m half asleep already, and won’t give you no more trou- 
ble. Lay her along by me, sir, would you ?” 

Simon did so, and the twain slept. 

He then drew his chair up to the fire and hung over it, moodily ^ 
thinking. Joyce’s candid speaking had produced in him a self-rev- 
elation which was now developing rapidly in the silence. For the 
first time since the occasion of his public arraignment he was getting 
a fair view of himself from the outside, and the process was one of 
painful disillusion. 

In common with most of his father’s household, he had always 


216 


liked Joyce for her good heart, and respected her bright wit, auda- 
cious honesty, and pluck when in trouble. Upon the workaday 
matters of ordinary life he rightly valued her opinion a good deal 
above his own ; hence the light that she had been shedding, even 
more by her tone than her words, upon his own conduct, was caus- 
ing him deep misgivings. It w’as clear that she considered his yielding 
to Terence’s eloquence a piece of criminal folly. Moreover, her re- 
peated use of the phrase, “ tampering with the truth,” gave him that 
sharpest of pangs which comes when self indorses the accusation of 
a friend. The words remained with him like the after-flavor of a 
nauseous drug. He had tampered with the truth — from a benevolent 
motive, no doubt — but tampering there had been. He had so manipu- 
lated the figure of Truth as to make it unrecognizable for a time, 
and then had railed at the world for passing it by unheeded. In ef- 
fect he had passed an adverse verdict upon himself, and then turned 
savagely upon his neighbors for accepting it. 

Then, again, as to Terence Clancy. His friend had always been 
a weak man — a “good-hearted weakling,” was what Simon had often 
called him in his own mind, yet had failed to realize that a good 
heart is not a thing to be trusted through thick and thin. How 
could he have been so blindly fatuous as to expect poor, feeble, shifty, 
well-meaning Terence to keep so difficult a promise — confession 
from such a man under such circumstances ! Who but a fool would 
have looked for such a consummation ! 

The more Simon reflected the more certain he grew that his only 
chance lay with this sick woman. Joyce could set him straight with 
the world, and her statement could be kept a secret until Clancy was 
fairly started in some distant place, whither the effects of past mis- 
conduct could not follow him. He now realized fully how much de- 
pended upon poor Joyce, that without her help he would never be 
able to right himself with his neighbors ; and the possibility of hav- 
ing to live out his life with his name uncleared, now that he had 
viewed it from so near a standpoint, filled him with consternation. 
He felt now that his fit of spleen against human nature was partly 
unreal ; that he, least of all men, could afford to do without human 
love and respect. And perhaps he compared his own semi-tragical 
woes with the long pain of this woman who complained so little. 
Observing her now as she slept, with both hands wrapped over her 
baby-girl’s, he guessed rightly that overwork had done much towards 
hastening her end, that she had worn herself down in the silent sto- 
ical endeavor, probably unmarked and unpitied of any, to support 


217 


her child in comfort. Now that he was learning to observe, be could 
note the contrast between the threadbare clothing of the mother and 
the dainty attire of the baby ; and the tale that hung thereby was a 
useful critical essay to a man whose thoughts had been concentrated 
upon himself for three entire weeks. Humility may be learned rather 
well from a woman sometimes. 

After watching her for some minutes it struck him, ignorant 
though he was in all matters relating to sickness, that Joyce’s 
breathing was, very faint. He wished that he had not sent Mrs. 
Venn to bed, or that he had himself gone for a doctor ere now. 

While Simon was cogitating, however. Miss Rose awoke, and 
quickly showed symptoms, as far as he could judge, of being hun- 
gry. Then he looked at his watch, and was amazed to discover that 
it was half - past six o’clock. Evidently he must have fallen asleep 
by the fire, and have slept for hours. 

He set the child upon his knee and gave her some milk, after 
which she began to patter up and down and pull things about as 
before. 

Simon followed her in her perambulations, endeavoring to keep 
her quiet and away from her mother. But every now and then she 
would break off, apparently when most interested, to stroke the 
sleeper’s face, with her quaint babble of “ Poor— poor, not w-e-11 !” 
then turn to Simon with a wrinkling of the short nose, and gray 
eyes full of laughter. 

These diversions lasted until the light of the winter morning be- 
gan to steal into the homestead, and to gleam on the new coating 
of rime which the night had given to the great ash-trees outside. 
Then Miss Rose, tired of her new companion, began to cry for her 
mother and to pull at her hands. 

Wondering how the invalid contrived to sleep through this at- 
tack, Simon bent over her with some misgiving. But she looked 
so placid •and peaceful, so exactly as she had done when last he 
bent over her, that it was some minutes before the truth dawned 
upon him. 

“ Poor — poor !” cried the baby, fretfully, climbing upon the stool 
and stretching out her arms. But the mother would nevermore 
answer to that appeal. “ Poor — poor ” was dead. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


The trout in the Hollacoinb canal had for many years been con- 
sidered the most exclusive and aristocratic caste of the fish world in 
this neighborhood. Cut off from the vulgar struggles and compe- 
tition of the main stream, they had for generations enjoyed that 
combination of repose and good living which makes for high-bred 
serenity. As a man worried by small cares and heart-shaking bills 
waxes lean and bitter, and becomes a person to be shunned of his 
fellow-man, so a trout in a moorland stream, ever hungry, ever com- 
pelled to snap up every scrap of food that passes for fear it should 
go to fatten his neighbor, becomes a reckless, pushing, vagabond 
sort of fish, devoid of self-respect, hateful to his fellow -trout. In 
this way it comes to pass that even a duffer may always pick up a 
troutlet or two in rapid broken water. These youngsters, indeed, so 
far from having the nice discrimination of well-fed fish, will swallow 
down, without the least regard for prudence or decency, the scrub- 
biest bottle-brush of a hackle ever twisted up by a country tackle- 
maker. 

Now, in the quiet - curving canal, especially in the upper reaches 
where it stole through the vicarage garden and the lush meadows 
below it, there were always to be had good feeding, bright water, 
and high - class society. The trout — few and fat, with beautiful 
waistcoats of white and gold — could live on sound hygienic prin- 
ciples; with leisure for proper digestion and friendly discussion. 
They were a class set apart and strictly preserved by the Angling 
Association, for the canal made an excellent nursery fot the more 
vehement Chilling. No upstart from the river was ever admitted 
into this desirable residential preserve ; and even such a traveller of 
note as a salmon-peal — should he chance to find his way under the 
canal hatches — was treated with a distant politeness that was apt 
to send him back, crestfallen and ashamed, and cynically craving 
for the free-and-easy society of the main stream. There had once 
been some talk of making the canal free water, of abolishing this 
house of lords at a swoop ; but Mr. Doidge, who owned the water- 
meadows, put his foot down at once, and wrote a scorching arti- 


219 


cle in his newspaper — and so the scandalous suggestion came to 
naught. 

Under the little foot-bridge that connected the vicarage tennis- 
lawn with the other part of the garden there lived the reigning sov- 
ereign of these waters — a noble trout of full three pounds’ weight, 
who could take down two or three of the Chilling sprats at a meal, 
almost without wag of tail. 

This lordly fish happened to be talking with a friend one after- 
noon, and from their conversation it might be gathered that blos- 
som-time had come round again, bringing enlivenment to man, 
beast, and fish. 

“ Look here,” quoth his troutship in fish-language, “ they’re act- 
ually beginning their insane tennis antics again — heaps of ’em on 
the lawn, d’ye see ? — and more coming. Faugh ! ’tis enough to 
spoil a man’s appetite.” 

“ They won’t spoil yours, however !” thought the friend. “ But, 
my dear sir,” she answered aloud, “ we shall see all the dresses and 
bonnets, which will surely be a boon?” 

“And lose the iron-blue dun ; just coming on thick, and the juici- 
est thing of the season !” he muttered, bitterly. “ But, as a female, 
you of course harp on the millinery !” 

“And you on the feeding!” she retorted, with a pert quiver of 
her pectoral fins. “ If you can’t appreciate pretty frocks, why not 
go and spend the summer under the Hollacomb woods, Mr. Appe- 
tite ?” 

This sally, however, was destined to pass unrebuked, for the 
sheeny little iron-blues came suddenly down upon the water, whirl- 
ing, flickering, dipping; and the big gourmand was at once lost in a 
gastric ecstasy that no insult could disturb. 

While he lay under the bridge, sucking in the duns with an ab- 
sorbing relish, half the youth and fashion of Chillington and its 
neighborhood passed over the big trout’s head ; for none could resist 
the first tennis-party of the season. 

Mrs. French-Chichester was there, with a new protege, lately pro- 
moted to her train, vice Terence Clancy deceased — at least, married 
and done for. This time the lessee of her favor was a British sub- 
altern, home on sick leave — a man ungifted with Terence’s modesty, 
and so unable to resist the debilitating effect of the great lady’s 
petting; so that she had wellnigh rendered him unfit for human 
society, and in another week or two his attack of arrogance might, 
figuratively speaking, be expected to end fatally. But, happily, she 


220 • 


was going to drop bim in a few days, when the fever might take a 
favorable turn. 

With them was Miss Tredethlyn, looking, to be perfectly candid, 
not a whit less insolent than the subaltern himself ; for the atmos> 
phere of a Chillington gathering was apt to inflame her natural 
weaknesses. She always breathed the air of the town with difficulty, 
and some of the commoner sort of people, often to be found on the 
vicarage lawn, affected her nervous system painfully. 

Honest Mrs. Nelson looked wistfully at Mrs. French-Chichester 
and Miss Tredethlyn when they arrived, as though to entreat them 
to be gentle with her humbler guests. But no gleam of pity was 
awakened ; the kind little woman abased herself for nothing. How- 
ever, long practice had doubtless taught her the impossibility of 
pleasing more than about five per cent, of her guests ; and were 
she to leave the choosing of them to a select committee of her 
friends, why, hospitality would be a simple process. In such a 
case, her six children might chance to have the garden to them- 
selves, with ices, cakes, and dainties enough to make every one of 
them ill for a week. As it was, she asked everybody she knew — 
and suffered martyrdom. And the hard part of it was that she 
was too poor to entertain at all. Public opinion compelled her 
to do, so then criticised her roundly for doing what she couldn’t 
afford. 

When Captain Rush came across those two ladies, with Mr. Par- 
dington their subaltern in tow, his smile was grim and bitter. He 
drew his father’s arm within his own as if to defy Miss Tredethlyn, 
and gave her a bow to match his smile. 

The subaltern, catching sight of Rush, exclaimed to his com- 
panions: 

“ Why, that must be Rush, of the 20th Dragoon Guards, one of 
the best polo-players in the service. Had no idea he belonged to 
these outlandish parts ; must go and have a chat with him, by Jove ! 
Why, he rode one of my ponies in a crack polo match once, and I 
was doosid proud, let me tell you !” 

Presently, on the lawn where tennis was beginning, Mr. Parding- 
ton had an opportunity of carrying out this threat. Rush was stand- 
ing alone by some rhododendrons when the other lounged languidly 
across to him. 

Mrs. French-Chichester, being now thoroughly tired of the youth, 
hoped to see him snubbed ; and, reading Rush’s face aright, expect- 
ed it. She glanced at Kate, and they understood each other with- 


221 


out a word, at once making a detour round the rhododendrons, and 
so passing behind the two men. 

The subaltern was commenting scorchingly upon the play, the 
people, the rustic toilets, the vicar’s old coat and baggy trousers, 
and such things. Rush hardly looked at him at first, but when he 
had quite done, said, in a calm reflective way, as though remarking 
upon the points of a horse, “ What a damned little snob you are, 
Pardington !” 

Mrs. French-Chichester had to go farther behind the bushes to 
enjoy it. Soon afterwards Pardington joined the ladies, blushing 
beautifully. 

“Well, have you had your chat with the distinguished captain?” 
asked the malicious widow. “Did he put you up to any ‘tips,’ as 
you call them?” 

He only muttered something inaudible. 

‘^Do you see that limp -looking old gentleman talking to the 
vicar?” she continued; “that’s Captain Rush’s father, now Squire 
of Bickington — once a Bond Street tailor.” 

“ Aha !” cried Pardington, cheering up swiftly, “ I always thought 
Rush was a nobody. Somehow I never could be intimate with that 
man !” 

“ I suppose this is another Captain Rush ?” Kate asked, in a steel- 
tipped voice. “Not the one who rode your pony ?” 

“ Oh, er — yes — he’s the same man.” 

“ Your views seem to have changed rather rapidly?” 

“ Ha, ha !” laughed Mrs. French-Chichester, charmed to see her 
protege roasted. “ When you grow to be a man, my dear boy, you 
won’t be so ready either with your blame or praise.” 

“ And if you wish to practise feminine spite, you should mix it 
with feminine wit,” added Kate. “ The one sounds so poor with- 
out the other.” 

“Come, cheer up — you boys do take a snubbing so badly! 
Didn’t he ask after your mamma ?” inquired the elder lady, kind- 
ly. “ Dear me ! men are so selfish ; they forget these little 
things.” 

“ Don’t let us keep you, Mr. Pardington ; you might like another 
chat with Captain Rush.” Kate’s eyes sparkled. It was clear that 
she had not nearly done with him yet. In fact, the punishment 
went on for some time, till at length Pardington extricated himself 
and retired, feeling like a whipped puppy. 

“ That’s right,” cried the widow, cheerfully, “ we’re rid of him at 


222 


last; I’m sick to death of that boy! Now, Kate, let us go and have 
a good look at the interesting natives — they’re worth it.” 

But Kate was out of tune with herself, her companion, and things 
in general. “ How well he summed up that Pardington boy !” she 
was reflecting. “ Even so might he sum me up, propriety permit- 
ting. But he won’t come near me; he has done with me altogether, 
and it serves me right. I did want to talk to him about Simon, and 
we always agree upon that topic. I could agree with him upon al- 
most any topic now ; but, heigho ! we shall never get beyond the 
weather again as long as we live ; and — and what a flat, dull, stupid 
affair this party is ; how I wish I had never come !” 

She looked round almost wistfully for the soldier, and saw him 
talking with Lord Bridistow, whose youngest brother was about to 
join Captain Rush’s regiment. 

Lord Bridistow was asking Rush, whose high reputation in the 
service he was well acquainted with, to advise and befriend the 
younger brother. The mild old Squire of Bickington was listening 
placidly the while, looking pleased and satisfled, yet not much puffed 
up by his lordship’s almost eager civility to his son ; for the highest 
honor shown to Julius could be no more than an incident in the 
general fitness of things. He had no desire to talk himself, liking 
better to bask in his son’s conversation ; yet was gratified to see 
Kate looking on from the other side of the tennis-court. And she 
perceived his complaisance, blushing inwardly. “He thinks his son 
will score a point in my estimation from being talked to by a lord,” 
she muttered, “and doubtless he’s right, quite right. How low an 
estimate of me, and how true ! How easily even a simple old man 
can read me ! Yet I’m not quite so bad as he thinks. Perhaps I’m 
like one of those American butterflies my father was reading about 
the other night, which, being good for food, mimic others that have 
a nauseous taste or smell ; but they do it for protection, while I have 
no such excuse. Ah, how gladly would I throw off my protective 
coloring !” 

Her reflections were here cut short by the talkative widow. 

“Kate, my dear, there’s a woman here whom you positively 
mustn’t miss. She has disappeared for the moment; but I pine for 
her return, and will soon point her out. Don’t ask me to describe 
her; just wait and enjoy her to the full when she appears.” 

A brisk four-game of tennis happened to be going on in front of 
them just now, and an ardent pair were running and striking be- 
tween Kate and Captain Rush ; yet she managed to watch him, and 


223 


to note that he never threw a single glance her way. He smiled at 
one or two of Lord Bridistow’s boyish jokes, and when he smiled 
Rush’s 'somewhat sullen face brightened in a way which was apt to 
startle new acquaintances. 

As she took in the pleasant scene, with its crowd of happy young 
people bathed in May sunshine, and backed by golden laburnum and 
a creaming wealth of crimson and pink May, poor Kate waxed sen- 
timental. 

“Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, 

Framework which waits for a picture to frame.” 

That was the color of her thought, though she had not Brown- 
ing’s power of expressing it. The picture had not been wanting, 
had she not smudged its beginning like a naughty child*, the May 
might have been in heart, instead of before her eyes, had she not 
checked its first growth. How proud — yes, proud, as she now con- 
fessed — w'ould she have been to find herself pointed out by all these 
people as the affianced bride of a tailor’s son. Ah, the laburnums 
would have gleamed then ! 

For a moment, for one moment, she caught his eye, and perceived 
how immediately the sullenness came back to his face. What a pity 
the weather was so fair! she hated this spread of monotonous bright- 
ness everywhere. There was no character in anything; the world 
wore a smile fatuous as that of a silly child. 

These darksome refiections, however, were cut short by her com- 
panion’s voice, which seemed thinner and more irritating than usual. 

“ Ah, now look, my dear ; here’s a farcical-comedy-in-petticoats, 
to be sure !” 

A very large woman was sailing down between the courts — a 
woman whose coming stopped conversation to permit of hard star- 
ing; immense in point of height and breadth, still more in point of 
thickness, and dressed with bewildering splendor. Rather a hand- 
some woman, too, though nature’s efforts had been heavily handi- 
capped with paint and powder. 

“She was rubicund when I last saw her, but now her cheeks have 
what artists call a ‘scumble’ of white — hence the delicate purple 
bloom,” commented Mrs. French - Chichester, staring through her 
glasses with the pleased air of one who introduces a veritable phe- 
nomenon. “I believe Mrs. Ludlow, the Lymport milliner, contem- 
plated suicide after finishing that bonnet; at least, I found the poor 
woman in a low, hysterical state which alarmed me. She entreated 


224 


me with tears not to let this head-gear of Mrs. Saunderson’s drive 
away my custom, but I reassured her and recommended a dose of 
sal volatile.” 

“ Who is this Mrs. Saunderson ?” 

“ The daughter of a famous house — a gin distillery at Lymport. 
I’m told a sister of hers married into serge the other day, and an- 
other into haberdashery ; but she herself has been clever enough to 
secure a gentleman — Captain Saunderson, of the Royal Red Clay- 
shire. He has had to sell out, of course. What married quarters 
in the kingdom could have held his wife? However, he’s short- 
sighted almost to blindness, so he may not take to drink.” 

Conscious of the admiring gaze of a whole lawn full of people, 
Mrs. Saunderson now came floating down between the courts in full 
view of Kate and Mrs. French-Chichester. Upon reaching a point 
just opposite her critics, she halted and turned to a little man who 
must have been following in her wake, though hitherto hidden by 
her masses of drapery. 

“Now, John dear,” she said, “ we must And my niece, Kate, and 
I’ll introduce you to her. She’m here sornewheres, I know, and what 
a fule I shall look if we don’t And her !” 

Mrs. French-Chichester, gurgling with suppressed laughter, whis- 
pered, with a neat imitation of the stranger’s accent : 

“Happen you’m the niece, my dear?” 

Mrs. Saunderson’s voice struck the listeners with amazement. They 
had naturally looked for sonorous tones to match so ample a person- 
ality, but the voice was low and sweet, and had a ring of human kind- 
ness that accorded well with her infantile smile, suggesting the pres- 
ence of a simple, natural soul somewhere within that vast tract of 
millinery. The voice was that of a good-natured child, the intona- 
tion that of a kindly woman, the accent that of the back streets of 
Lymport. 

Though the play was far from brilliant, people began to stroll up 
in twos and threes to watch the game on this particular court. Youno* 
Tom Nelson, the vicar’s son, whose skill drew few lookers-on as a 
rule, began to wonder what had come to every one, to try and brace 
himself up to the level of this large audience ; and the other three 
players did their best to back his gallant endeavors, until, flushed 
with so much flattering attention, they all four surpassed them- 
selves. 

Presently Mrs. Saunderson, after questioning one or two of those 
about her, resumed her triumphal progress. She marched down the 


226 


court, worked her way round the end, past Lord Bridistow and Cap- 
tain Rush, and turning to the left once more, bore down with full 
swing and sweep of all her drapery towards Miss Tredethlyn and her 
companion. The little captain again followed in his wife’s wake, look- 
ing somewhat limp and spiritless. 

Mrs. French-Chichester, eying him furtively, whispered : 

“ He will take to drink, if trotted about like this. Has the wom- 
an no mercy ?” 

A moment later Mrs. Saunderson stopped before the pair, exclaim- 
ing, with her smile narrowed a hair-breadth by a touch of nervous- 
ness, “Kate, my dear niece. I’ve just come round to make your 
acquaintance !” 

What had happened? Had the sky fallen, or the earth opened, 
or the sides of the universe cracked? Was she falling headlong 
through infinite space, or had some one stunned her by an acci- 
dental blow ? Kate felt as though her consciousness were split open 
like a pod, and the shattered fragments flying round her. “Niece — 
niece — this woman's niece ?" 

The friendly smile was crumpled in a moment, the good-natured 
face was purpling under its bloom, the large woman was panting 
audibly. 

“ I — you — you don’t seem to understand. I’m your Aunt Mary, 
I am. Ha’n’t Mr. Tredethlyn, my brother-in-law, told you? Didn’t 
he get my note this mornin’ ?” 

Still Kate said nothing, but stood in a stupor of amazement. The 
would-be, or real, aunt paled again, and tears came to her eyes. 

“ I — I never thought,” she whimpered, “ as my own niece would 
treat me so, and me married to a gentleman ! John, dear, will you 
kindly explain to the lady who I be, and then we’ll go, and never see 
her face again ?” 

But John Saunderson was too angry or too wretched to make ex- 
planations ; and the vicar had to step forward from the crowd, for 
gather round they would, mere propriety shrivelled for the nonce by 
intense curiosity. 

Before Mr. Nelson could open his mouth, however, the poor wom- 
an turned to him sobbing: 

“ ’Tis gospel truth, it is ; but I’ve no wish to claim relationship if 
my own sister’s child don’t want me. Ah, if poor Minnie had lived 
she’d never have brought up a daughter to set her lip at me that 
way !” 

There was a time when Kate’s flrst thought would have been to 
15 


226 


hurt and crush this woman who was covering her with ignominy, 
but severe mortification had brought with it some discipline. Julius 
Rush’s resolute neglect had loosened her arrogance at the roots, and 
taught her the pleasing art of self-criticism. She could still carry an 
arrogant front, as we have seen, but beneath it a crumbling of old 
dogmas had been going on, and something like a creeping paralysis 
of her old self-confidence. Rush Was in sight now, standing apart 
with Lord Bridistow instead of pressing in as others were doing, but 
she felt that he was listening eagerly, and wondering how she would 
come through the ordeal. 

In truth, it was a miserable moment for Kate. Hardly any con- 
ceivable eddy of circumstance could have hurt her pride more than 
this public claim of aunthoo'd by one whose outward woman was so 
crudely vulgar. 

Yet she hardly doubted but that Mrs. Saunderson was speaking 
truth. A dozen corroborations of the painful fact were flitting 
through Kate’s mind. Mr. Tredethlyn bad always been reticent 
concerning his wife, insomuch that she had feared to press home 
any questions about her mother’s birth and connections, fearing to 
hear of something derogatory, the while she proudly persuaded her- 
self that there was nothing to fear. Yes; this degrading claim was 
but too probably a sound oUe. 

The iron entered Kate’s soul, but the gaze of many critics stirred 
her courage. No one could have felt worse ; yet hardly any one, en- 
dowed with her special prejudices, could have behaved better. The 
pallor resulting from astonishment and horror gave way to a bright 
blush, and with a fine effort of will she spoke quite steadily. 

“ I was not aware that 1 had an aunt living other than my father’s 
two sisters in London, but I do not for a moment doubt your word, 
Mrs. Saunderson. Your letter may have arrived by the mid-day post, 
but I have not been at home since the morning. I think you will 
pardon my great surprise under the circumstances, and — and, shall 
we shake hands?” 

Now was the sharpest pang of all, for the kindly woman fell upon 
her with a gush of tears; embraced her effusively ; poured upon her 
a flood of talk with its local accent strengthened and swollen by 
excitement ; and, in short, could in nowise make enough of her. 

Captain Saunderson, who felt much for Kate — and would have 
felt more had his own misery been less acute — now came to the res- 
cue. Never before had Kate quite realized the blessedness of what 
seems under ordinary circumstances but a mere outward grace— good 


227 


breeding. Captain Saunderson, though quivering with discomfort, at 
once engaged her in easeful small-talk, and they were soon strolling 
away as though nothing had happened, the large aunt beaming beside 
them. There were tears of gratitude in Kate’s proud eyes when she 
turned them upon the little captain. 

The humble ex-tailor. Squire Rush, had listened to it all — horrified 
at his own ill-breeding, but too poignantly interested to tear himself 
away. He looked wistfully at Kate every time he passed her after- 
wards, and many times muttered to his son : 

“She’s a grand creature, Julius; she came out, I say, nobly. I 
don’t often swear, but, hy George^ she’s a grand young lady !” 

Julius said nothing, but looked a year or two younger and five 
years less sardonic. He would have given much to be allowed to 
speak to Kate now, but this was not to be ; she had to punish some 
one for what she was suffering, and at present he was the only avail- 
able scape-goat. If he drew near to her she looked more bitterly 
haughty and unapproachable even than in old days; and while 
Mrs. Saunderson prattled on, like a pleased child permitted for 
the first time to handle some rare and delicate toy, she comforted 
herself by plaiting together a few sentences by way of whip-lash 
for her father. For, though she was behaving so well in public, she 
meant to let flesh and blood have their say in her father’s study 
presently. 

There were some tolerably caustic things said about Kate as she 
walked to and fro with her new relatives; and the criticisms reached 
her nervous system, though not her ears. Tennis began again, and 
every face she met looked decently incurious now ; but she knew 
that every eye was on her, that tongues of flame were licking her 
name. Briefly, Kate was under Are, and displaying not a little valor; 
with no prospect, as far as she knew, of medal, or reward, or even 
honorable mention. But she thought it due to her pride to remain 
on the fleld and take her punishment without flinching. Nor was 
the pain of her humiliation lessened by the instinctive perception 
that it gave such general satisfaction as that of no one else would 
have done ; for was there a soul present whom she had not rebuffed 
or insulted at one time or another? Her friend Mrs. French-Chich- 
ester was unkind enough to commiserate poor dear Kate openly by 
glance and shrug ; and went so far as to take back young Parding- 
ton into favor on purpose to talk the thing over. Assuredly the pop- 
ular widow was not to be surpassed in the useful art of extracting 
pleasure from a friend’s misfortunes, 


228 


Mrs. Saunderson’s artless babble never ceased, and Kate was speed- 
ily in a position to comprehend her father’s mysterious silence. 

Mr.Tredethlyn had, to summarize a long story, married the daugh- 
ter of a wealthy gin-distiller of Lymport, thus making possible his 
retirement from arduous parish work to the pleasant haven of Moor 
Gates. His bride had been anxious to cast off the fetters of trade 
and become a lady outright, and he had been quite willing to further 
so laudable an ambition. Thus an understanding was arrived at by 
which she paid stealthy visits to her people now and then, but was 
left unmolested by them in full enjoyment of her new status. For 
their part they kept to the bargain faithfully, and Mr. Tredethlyn 
had seen little or nothing of them since his wife’s death. 

But honest Mary Saunderson, having so gallantly captured an of- 
ficer and a gentleman — thus becoming as good a lady even as her 
sister had been — thought it high time to lay claim to the two hand- 
some nieces whose fame had long since reached her; and an invita- 
tion to a Chillington garden-party seemed to offer a delightful op- 
portunity of achieving this end. Accordingly she had written 
yesterday, frankly stating her views, and thus giving the Tredethlyn 
party the chance of avoiding the meeting if they chose. 

It will be seen that her innocent scheme had been all fair and 
above-board. With a beating heart, but a perfectly clear conscience, 
she had come over by Uain from Lymport prepared to embrace her 
nieces with effusion if they appeared, to try and forget their exist- 
ence should they hold aloof from the party. Could they once make 
up their minds to meet her face to face, she felt that, grandly dressed 
as she was, arch and fascinating as she could be, supported as she 
would be by so unimpeachable a husband, she must needs take even 
the proud Miss Kate by storm — and this was just what she had 
done. 

The Saundersons were among the last people to leave the vicarage, 
and Kate stuck to them to the bitter end. They were to return by 
a particular train, and so were unable to accept an invitation she gave 
them to accompany her home ; but some day the new aunt, whose 
kind heart was drawing Kate even in her humiliation, hoped and 
trusted that she would be free to come and pay Moor Gates a real 
visit. This must be deferred for a time, however, for the bride and 
bridegroom were returning to town to-morrow, and in a few days 
were starting for the Pyrenees. Dear John, as his attentive wife ex- 
plained, was so far from strong that his doctor wished him to spend 
at least a year or two in a cheerful suuny climate. 


229 


“Dear John” winced uneasily while his bride was descanting 
upon his feeble health. The man was as strong as a horse, and 
knew that Kate was aware of it. Yet it was not mere shame that 
was driving him abroad, the truth being that he was in a peculiar 
position. He had sold himself for money and was being rewarded 
beyond his deserts, and far beyond his expectations. It was embar- 
rassing, but true, that his wife insisted upon bringing him affection 
over and above the longed-for cash ; which made him a mean fellow 
in his own eyes. For he was just sufficiently superior to the aver- 
age man to kick against a bargain by which he took all and gave 
nothing ; and his present intention was to take this affectionate 
bride abroad, especially to such places as lay outside the track of 
his fellow-countrymen ; to get used to her; to make much of her — 
if possible, to get fond of her. A good deal of this Kate gathered 
from his manner as she drove the new relations to the station, and 
what she learned of the couple this one afternoon gave her much 
food for reflection afterwards. 

When that bewildering thing, Aunt Mary’s parting embrace, was 
quite completed, and they had stepped into the train, Kate gathered 
up her reins and drove off in an oddly mixed frame of mind ; but 
above the tangle of feeling produced by the almost tragical episode 
of the vicarage lawn, there stood up stiff and straight the desire for 
vengeance upon her father. It comforted her soreness to think of 
the coming scene in that offending parent’s study. The black- 
browns were driven up the hill at a pace which astonished them. 

Robbed, as she felt, of legitimate grievance against her aunt, the 
craving to punish her father increased with every yard she traversed. 
It was his weak, hypocritical silence that had brought upon her such 
humiliation as would make her quiver for many a long day: it would 
be a solace — some slight solace — to make him suffer with her. 
When she had spoken her mind the balm of self-respect might, 
perhaps, be restored to her. 

The black-browns smoked along the road, whirled round the short 
drive from lodge gate to front door, and Kate sprang out. The boy 
who took the ponies shivered when he caught Miss Tredethlyn’s eye. 

In a trice she was in the study. It was empty. 

Her fierce peal of the bell was answered immediately ; her hopes 
dashed to the ground the moment afterwards. 

“Master got a letter by the mid-day post while yon was lunchin’ 
at ’Ollacomb, miss, and soon afterwards ordered his things to be 
packed. He says you’re not to be anxious ; but he feels a bit poorly. 


230 


and has gone off to the Royal Hotel at Lymport to get a breath of 
sea-air for a day or two; and will you please to send after him 
his—” 

“ That will do — you may go.” 

Left alone, poor Kate could bear up no longer. She sank into 
her father’s deep smoking-chair and poured forth her pent-up vexa- 
tion in a flood of tears. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


“ Hardly ever, dear lad, do I venture to set up my opinion 
against yours. Come, now, am I a bitterly dogmatic father?” 

Julius Rush smiled, though he happened at this moment to be in 
a mood more favorable to frowning. The father and son were trav- 
ersing the long conservatory which bounded two sides of the draw- 
ing-room at Bickington ; the former was pressing a point with all 
the mild warmth and. gentle earnestness which he possessed. 

“ I think, I do think,” the squire insisted, holding his son’s arm 
tightly, and carefully adjusting his stride to suit the longer pair of 
legs — even as he always tried to adjust his thinking to fit the larger 
mind — “ that Miss Kate would be pleased to see us. She must know 
that you care for her, though you have avoided her so proudly — not 
that I blame you, my dear son. No, no. I admire your pride and 
wonder at it. How different was I at your age! But then I was 
only a tradesman, for whom high spirit would have spelled ‘ruin.’ 
You’re a gentleman; with every right to let your heart speak. Well, 
as I was a-saying, she knows you care for her; and she knows I’m 
not a bullying, hulking sort of fellow to go and crow over her in 
misfortune. I think she would take a visit from us as a mark of 
delicate respect; I do think she would understand my motive in 
coming, would see as I’m anxious in my humble way to show that 
my respect for her is only increased by what she has gone through. 
It might even draw her towards me a little ; and that way lies your 
only chance, dear lad, for you’ll never begin courting her in earnest 
until she’s kinder to me — will you, now ?” 

The taciturn captain smiled again at the old man’s simple cunning, 
but the smile was not acquiescent. 

“ I agree with you,” he said, moodily, “ as to the increased re- 
spect; but it is so few days since that scene at the vicarage. 
Her pride will still be rankling, and she’ll make a scape-goat of 
you, and insult yon, and — and I shall hate her more than I do 
already !” 

“ My dear lad, my dear lad,” murmured the father, with a kind of 
despair, “ is it possible that you really hate her ? Why, she has 


232 


never liurt me intentionally ; it horrifies me to think that I should 
be the cause of your estrangement.” 

“ Not another word, father. It is your persistent kindness that 
makes me hate her so.” 

The squire grew depressed and silent. He was too simple to 
comprehend his son, having no conception what pranks the “ pangs 
of disprized love ” play with a man. He felt altogether humbled 
and rebuked, and quite unable to reach up from his own mean level 
to the lofty mental plane in which his son moved. , 

“ Well, my dear lad,” he concluded, with the patient sigh of a 
meek man who casts aside a cherished scheme, “you shall have your 
way ; we’ll keep away from Miss Tredethlyn. And you’ll pardon 
your old dad for being so pressing? — and, pardon me again, dear 
lad, but if you pull the blooms from that azalea I shall have a dread- 
ful time of it with McTavish !” 

“ Father,” cried Julius, with a kind of wrench of his whole body, 
“ I wish to God you were not so humble !” 

“I’m sorry to displease you, Julius. I’ll try and do better.” 

Then the soldier looked so black that the old man trembled. 

“ Those cursed servants,” Julius muttered, with a slow fiush creep- 
ing up his dark face, “ have bullied every bit of life out of you.” 

The poor old squire was walking on tiptoe now, hardly daring to 
breathe. He felt the muscles of his son’s arm tighten and throb. 

Julius walked slowly on, with his face working. He had not been 
home for some months, and had now returned to find his old father 
a mere butt for the insolence of his dependants. The servants, 
pampered, spoiled, unchecked by any hint of the captain’s return, 
had become little short of cruel tyrants to their master. Children, 
the butler, had a way of crushing him without a word, of letting 
him know by mere lift of eyebrow that he was but a tailor ; and the 
others, perhaps unhinged by idleness, and the dulness of a country 
establishment in which little or no entertainment was done, followed 
Mr. Children’s lead with tolerable success. 

Things changed somewhat from the moment that the order for 
preparing the captain’s room went forth, but respectfulness is not to 
be reacquired at a few hours’ notice. Julius, noting his father’s in- 
creased timidity with the men-servants, and judiciously leading him 
into admissions as to what had been going on during the last month 
or two, quickly learned enough to make him rage inwardly. He 
yearned for vengeance ; but could catch no one actually tripping. 
He was as a steel-toothed trap set open in their path ; and they 


knew it. He had seen enough, however, to justify the dismissal of 
four or five of them, though his father shivered at so terrible a sug- 
gestion. 

“ What makes me so mad,” he said presently between his set 
teeth, “ is that you go through it all for me.” 

This was true enough, for the squire would long ago have given 
up this big establishment but for his desire to have a home worthy 
of his son and his son’s friends. 

“Well, Julius,” he admitted, reluctantly, “sometimes I do rather 
wish myself in a snug little villa, with two or three maids and a man. 
They — they have punished me somewhat of late. I almost think 
I could see my way to letting you remonstrate with Children and 
McTavish — not harshly, you know, but — ” 

“ Dear old dad,” said the soldier, tenderly as a woman, his voice 
bringing a delicate flush to the old man’s cheek, “ I’m going to make 
what men who have served in India call a bunderhust with you. I 
will pay that visit, and will be at least civil enough to Miss Tredeth- 
lyn to get some information as to Simon from her, in return for 
which you’ll give me a free hand with the servants. ‘ Is’t a bargain ’? 
as your modest McTavish would have it.” 

“ But, my dear boy, you — you wouldn’t dis — it would pain me 
to—” 

“ My dear father, the thing’s settled. Put on your hat and coat 
at once. I’m going to ring for the dog-cart and drive you off to 
Chillington Vicarage for lunch.” 

“ But — but — my dear boy — ” 

“ I shall call for you again precisely at four o’clock, when we shall 
proceed to the assault of Moor Gates.” 

Julius drew his trembling father into the hall, helped him into a 
light top -coat, placed a stick in his hand, led him out onto the 
gravel sweep, and fairly started him for the west lodge gate, propos- 
ing to pick him up in a few minutes’ time. 

Immediately afterwards Mr. Children received an order which 
turned his arrogant heart to water. 

“ Send my cart round at once ; I’m going to drive your master 
into the town. On my return in thirty minutes you will await me 
in the billiard-room, with all the other servants, gardeners, grooms, 
helpers — do you hear?” 

“Yes, sir. Should you wish — ” 

“ Do you understand my order or not ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 


234 


Children withdrew, his florid cheeks paling rapidly. 

“ It means the saecA:,” he muttered in a sick whisper. “ Gawd-for- 
saken fool that I’ve been to let slip the best-paid place in the county !” 

At the end of half an hour, punctual to the moment, Captain 
Rush stalked into the billiard-room. In his hand was a heavy 
riding-whip ; his square face was pale, his eyes fierce. As he took 
up his position upon the hearth-rug, facing the little crowd of men 
and youths, there was dead silence in the room. Not one pair of 
eyes could meet the captain’s : every man present felt that he above 
all would be singled out for punishment — and that he had well 
rarned it. But a week or two ago a retired non-commissioned officer 
of his regiment had been discoursing to them of the young mas- 
ter, declaring him to be one of the tautest captains in the service. 
Upon his promotion from lieutenant to captain, “ A ” troop, the 
rowdiest in the regiment, had been given into his charge, and for 
four weeks he had made the lives of “ A ” troop a burden. They 
used to boast about it afterwards, when they had learned to under- 
stand him and swear by him. Briefly, his reputation had a founda- 
tion in solid fact. 

This stern captain of dragoons now saw before him the faces of 
those who had been despitefully using the old man for whom he had 
a protecting love fathoms deep ; whose very timidity he reverenced ; 
who had never spoken otherwise than gently to any one of them ; 
whose lavish kindness they had requited with vulgar scorn. It gave 
him keen pleasure to note how cowed and miserable they looked; 
nor would he for a time break a silence which they evidently found 
so punishing. But when his words did come it seemed that the 
silence must have been full of comfort ; he seemed not merely to be 
speaking, but to be lashing and scourging them with whips. They 
were ashamed almost to breathe. Yet his language was not violent; 
he swore not once, but seemed to turn their hearts inside out, and to 
scorch them through and through. He said things of which the 
echo would hang about the house for many a long day. When he 
had finished this strange unconventional address, he dismissed with 
formal words. Children, the butler, McTavish, Tomlinson, the second 
footman, and two other delinquents. 

Children plucked up courage so far as to say : 

“ I require a month’s warning, sir.” 

“You require a sound thrashing, sir!” thundered the captain, 
“ and that you’ll get if I find you anywhere within the ring-fence of 
Bickington Park after four o’clock this afternoon.” 


235 


McTavish also essayed a word or two, but even his overbearing 
self-confidence had evaporated. 

“Ye’ll no get anither inon like — ” he began, then broke off with 
a quaver under the captain’s gaze. 

“ Leave my presence at once, you five,” proceeded the bitter voice. 
“Your wages up to this day month will be sent to the butler’s pan- 
try. If I find any one of you about the place on my return this 
afternoon you know what to expect.” 

They filed out of the room, glad to get beyond reach of the 
dagger-tongue. 

Then Captain Rush spoke more kindly to the remainder. There 
were some decent men and lads among them, though as usual the 
black-sheep had set the tune for the rest of the flock to dance to. 
They were not to be let off too easily, however, and breathed more 
freely when the signal to depart was at length given them. 

Julius Rush laughed grimly to himself when the billiard-room 
door closed upon the last man. “ The dear old dad,” he muttered, 
thrashing his leg so hard as to mark it for a month, though he felt 
not a stroke at the time — “ the dear old dad will have a spell of peace 
after this. For once in my life I’ve done something unconventional. 
Were servants ever treated like this before, I wonder? Even now 
have they got their deserts? Anyway I have tasted revenge — and 
I like the flavor.” 

But the young master had not quite done with them yet ; the 
practice of revenge seemed to have improved his appetite, though 
not his temper. He made an excellent luncheon, and was served 
with obsequious alacrity ; yet he complained of everything that was 
done. Not a soul in the house, man or woman, could move or 
speak aright. Not content with scarifying them as a body, he now 
proceeded to rate each one separately. They said the devil had 
got hold of the young master; but they flew to his word of com- 
mand. 

A kind of mute despair had settled down upon the entire house- 
hold by the time the captain’s dog-cart came round ; but no temper 
was exhibited. His fury had obliterated all that, as a thunder- 
shower the sprinkling of a child’s watering-can. 

Julius would have no man with him, for he was tired of his own 
wrath, and wished to relax unseen. It was not easy to quiet him- 
self down, however, his whole system being so charged with indig- 
nation ; and as he trotted gently between flower-trimmed hedges, and 
amid the merry flutings of the blackbirds, little spurts of vicious 


236 


laughter cleft the scent-laden air. But he was a strong-willed man, 
and Nature was doing her best to ease him of his humors. 

Mr. Rush was almost afraid to look at his son when the cart drew 
up at the vicarage, but Julius had got himself in hand by then, and 
was as gentle as a woman with his old father; so calm and serene, 
indeed, as to make it clear that he had done nothing very terrible. 

“ Well, Julius,” said the squire, a little nervously, as they were 
mounting the station hill, “I see by your manner that — that you 
have let those poor fellows off easily ?” 

“Too easily by half; but that’s a forbidden topic. What you 
have to do, my dear father, is to drink in the sunshine and brace 
yourself to face Miss Tredethlyn — whom I hate less than I did this 
morning.” 

Had Julius allowed his father to guess how deep a tragedy had 
been enacting at home, he knew that the old man would have been 
positively incapable of facing Kate for a day or two. Instead of 
which, he cheered and encouraged him by such little devices as a 
mother might have used to hearten up a shy young girl, so that 
when the moment arrived the squire was able to inquire for Miss 
Tredethlyn with hffi’dly a tremor in his voice. 

Some painful seconds ensued, however, for Miss Tredethlyn was 
having tea in the garden with a friend ; and the friend, as they at 
once perceived on emerging from the house, was Mrs. French-Chich- 
ester. During the short walk across the shadow-dappled lawn the 
squire’^ courage lapsed away, leaving him a mere bundle of nerves, 
for the gentle old man had been a good deal shaken by domestic 
worries lately, and dreaded the popular widow even more than Miss 
Tredethlyn. 

Fortunately it happened that Mrs. French-Chichester had risen to 
depart, and only stayed long enough to tease Mr. Rush by a few 
questions on subjects about which he was painfully conscious of his 
own ignorance. True, in those few minutes she contrived to make 
the old man wretched, the dragoon furious, and her hostess miser- 
ably uncomfortable; but she thereupon shook hands with all three 
most cordially, and departed, wreathed in smiles. 

Then followed an awkward pause, broken only by a remark or 
two upon the blossom-laden horse-chestnut under which they were 
sitting. 

Kate had been supporting her friend’s stinging condolences with 
the kind of stoicism which is apt to end hysterically, and even in a 
happier mood would have been deeply embarrassed at receiving 


237 


these two — the tailor whom she had openly scorned, the tailor’s son 
whom she, the gin-distiller’s granddaughter, bad snubbed so haugh- 
tily. Had they come to triumph over her she could have faced 
them without flinching ; but she was as clearly conscious of the old 
gentleman’s kindly motives as though he had expounded them for 
an hour. In truth, she felt more like crying than making conver- 
sation, and Captain Rush perceived that the visit would be the dead 
failure he had expected. 

Mr. Rush, after straining his mind almost to the cracking-point 
for a topic, hazarded an inquiry after Kate’s father. 

Mr. Tredethlyn was still at Lymport. He had written a letter 
which, while easing bis own mind, had been to Kate’s as a tight 
boot to a tender foot. From the safe vantage-ground of the Royal 
Hotel he could express himself with a frankness impossible with 
less than forty miles between himself and Kate; and there was a 
peculiar charm in thus pouring forth home -truths from a safe 
distance upon one who was apt to have the best of it in close en- 
counters. 

The letter set forth how, from sheer tenderness towards Kate’s 
most obvious weakness, her father had withheld the truth as to her 
mother’s humble origin. Priding herself as she had done almost 
from childhood upon her superiority to some nine -tenths of her 
neighbors, it would have been, he conceived, little short of brutal to 
humiliate her without adequate cause. Now that she knew the 
worst, she must bear it as best she could. Nell had been in pos- 
session of the secret for years, but she was cast, if he might be for- 
given for saying so, in a nobler mould than her sister. And let 
Kate remember that all the comforts and luxuries of her life sprang 
from this much-despised trade. But for that she must needs have 
been a poor parson’s daughter, bound down to some paltry country 
village, immersed in mean economies, sighing in vain for decent 
society. Her father’s old Cornish pedigree would have been but a 
poor solace under the burden of such an environment. Again, his 
motives in marrying out of his caste had been of the highest, and so 
on, and so on. 

A good deal of the letter was true; and all of it was bitter to its 
recipient. Mr. Tredethlyn had concluded his not uncongenial task 
by stating flatly that he had no intention of returning home until 
Kate should be ready to receive him in a fitting spirit, and refrain 
from harping upon topics calculated to produce discord in a com- 
fortable home. 


238 


It happened that this letter of parental admonition was now to 
fulfil a purpose quite outside its writer’s intentions. 

For Kate was in the peculiar wrought-up condition in which a 
person’s real emotional self is apt to burst forth in unexpected 
fashion. Her wrath against her father had been boiling over for 
these four days, but anger was now streaked with the self-reproach 
of a woman generous at the core, and so moved to over-estimate the 
enormity of her own pettiness. She bad been taking herself severely 
to task for past misconduct to the tailor, and now here was the 
tailor in person shaming her with fresh kindness, for his delicate 
respect and sympathy were perfectly visible through the awkward- 
ness of his manner. 

Captain Rush, who was observing her with a certain grim cool- 
ness, saw something — as much as a member of the blinder sex could 
be expected to see — of what was passing in her mind, but was far 
from prepared for what came next ; indeed, a sudden fall of snow 
through the June sunshine might well have amazed him less; for 
Kate turned upon the old squire — over whose head she had been 
looking for some years — her clear strong gaze, drew from her pocket 
her father’s stinging letter, and read out to him the portions in which 
her own failings were handled. 

The old man blushed as warmly as herself the while, and looked 
far more horrified. 

“ My dear,” he said, shakily rising, hat in hand, while a snow of 
delicate chestnut petals fluttered down upon his gray head — “ my 
dear — if you’ll forgive an old man calling you so just this once — I 
can’t abear to see you vex yourself so ; my respect for you is more 
hearty than ever it was afore. I can’t express myself as I should 
like, but do put up the letter, there’s a dear. I do think your 
father’s very ’ard — I should say hard — upon you; and — and I’m 
a’most too flustered to say anythink else.” 

Kate folded the letter up as steadily as she could, and resumed 
her seat. 

There was to be no more demonstration, though there is no know- 
ing to what sentimental length the pair might have gone but for the 
presence of a critical third person. 

No sign came from Captain Rush, but his heart danced for a 
moment or two. He admitted to himself that Kate had done well ; 
that the reading of this indictment against herself amounted to a full 
apology for past rudeness to his father. But, though she had 
risen in his esteem, his sullen pride was yet far from the melting 


239 


point. He could be good friends with Kate in future, but would 
lower himself no more by the offer of unacceptable homage. 

Wishing to brace up the pair and give a lighter tone to the con- 
versation, he offered to give them an account of his dealings with the 
servants at Bickington. 

Mr. Rush listened to the curt narrative, holding fast to his chair, 
palpitating with excitement, his face a moving picture of horror and 
admiration, dread and relief. “How terribly hard of you,” he 
seemed to say, “ yet how bold ! How terrifying, yet infinitely com- 
forting !” Presently terror mastered the other feelings. 

“ But, my dear son,” he murmured, shakily, “ how shall I face them 

o’’ 

now { 

“ There’ll be none to face. The five whom I dismissed will be out 
of sight before we return.” 

“ b — do you think so ?” 

“ I know it,” said Julius, grimly. 

“ They have only got their deserts,” cried Kate, eagerly ; “ and I 
wish I had been there to see justice done upon them.” Her eyes 
and the captain’s flashed together for a moment, then parted 
slowly. 

The squire’s terror died gradually but surely. There ensued a 
relief deep as an ocean, calm as a sleeping infant. The rich beauty 
of the opening summer seemed to emerge for him as from a veil 
withdrawn. He leaned back and drank in the world of sun and 
blossom, murmuring : 

“ Children gone, and McTavish — never to return !” 

“Never, dear old dad,” muttered Julius; and perhaps he and 
Kate were also inclined to detect subtle beauties where mere grass 
and flowers had been. At any rate, they began to talk to each 
other, while the squire listened in luxurious silence, and thought the 
millennium had come. 

Captain Rush explained how anxious he was to see Simon ; how his 
father had made one or two more efforts to do so, and been rebuffed ; 
how his own letters had remained unanswered. Did MissTredethlyn 
think there was any hope of getting at his friend ? Could she tell 
him anything as to Simon’s plans and intentions? 

Kate, being the only person whom Simon ever received as a 
visitor, could answer most questions about him ; indeed, it was no 
small relief to be able to discuss Simon and his situation with those 
who cared for him, instead of proclaiming his innocence to deaf 
ears. 


240 


“ I shall be glad to talk of him,” she said, turning her eyes tow- 
ards the Hollacomb vale, a glimpse of which was visible through 
the lilacs, “ though it is rather a mournful subject. Poor old Simon ! 
You wouldn’t be surprised at his neglect of your letters. Captain 
Rush, if your could get a glimpse of him now. He is changed — so 
soured and broken-spirited and cynical that you would hardly know 
him. I fear he deserves his nickname now. ‘ Timon of Chillington’ 
he has become in very truth.” 

Kate then told them, with an unusual thrill in her voice, the story al- 
ready known to the reader of Joyce’s death, and of her charge to Simon. 

“ This sad business,” she proceeded, “ was of some service to 
Simon. The responsibility of the child’s guardianship is good for 
him, and the mother’s pathetic circumstances rekindled an old idea 
in his mind. Among his hundred schemes you may have heard him 
speak of that of founding a hospital for the dying. Such a thing 
has been discussed in the magazines and public journals, and the 
stories told of working girls and women overtaken by disease, and 
hiring garrets in which to die, took a deep hold of Simon. The 
hospital was to have been a great undertaking, properly organized 
and equipped, but his many failures have humbled poor old Simon. 
He told me that he had no spirit for another big failure ; but wish- 
ing to make one last experiment before leaving the country for 
good, he proposed to turn Hollacomb Farm into a small hospital for 
homeless people to die in, surrounded at least with decent care and 
moderate comfort. Of course I encouraged him — and now the thing’s 
done, as you know, Mr. Rush.” 

“Yes, I’ve heard about it. Miss Kate, but should like to hear 
more ; and nearly all this is news to my son.” 

“ Well, he has arranged for four beds, and a trained nurse, and 
Mr. Syme is the medical attendant, and there’s really little more to 
tell. The thing is all on a small scale, but quite a success at present. 
The patients have shown themselves grateful to Simon, and little 
Rose makes the dying people smile as she patters in and out of the 
rooms. The woods look .beautiful now, and sometimes the poor 
things are carried out beside the canal, as if to take a last farewell 
of trees and flowers and sunshine; and altogether there’s a strange 
beauty and pathos, as of mournful music, about the place — and I 
don’t know that I care to talk about it any more.” 

For a moment or two the white blossoms fell upon a silent party ; 
then Kate resumed, turning abruptly to Captain Rush with the air 
of one resolved not to shirk a painful topic. 


241 


“ I hope you side with me against Simon’s accusers ?” 

My mind is dark upon that question,” he answered, slowly. “ I 
can’t believe what they say, yet know not how to disbelieve it thor- 
oughly.” 

“ He’s the last man in God’s universe to wrong a poor girl and 
leave her to destroy herself,” said the old man, solemnly; “and I 
feel in my heart that the Almighty will one day see the innocent 
righted and the guilty punished.” 

Kate looked wistful, but full of doubt. Julius Rush looked bitter 
and sceptical. 

“ The world’s a seething mass of innocent suffering,” he mut- 
tered. 

“ If I were but a man — ” began Kate, impulsively. 

“ What could you do ?” the soldier retorted with asperity. 
“ What could you do for a man who won’t even assert his own in- 
nocence? who won’t see a friend? won’t answer a friend’s letters?” 

“ Fight for him behind his back — fight tooth and nail to see him 
righted — that’s what I could do. And can you wonder at his hope- 
less kind of silence when every one condemns him, even his own 
father and his once-friend Terence — even my sister, who I did think 
knew him better ? Were I a man,” she continued, with kindling 
eyes and a contemptuous glance at the one who seemed so luke- 
warm in a friend’s cause, “ I would labor and strive, and ransack 
and delve and rummage till I had plucked out the heart of this mys- 
tery, and removed the blot upon the honor of one whom I believe 
to be nothing short of a hero.” 

Rush still looked unmoved ; seemingly he refused to be inoculated 
with Kate’s ardor. Perhaps he took a perverse pleasure in not 
showing his better side, perhaps was minded to prolong an indig- 
nant outburst which pleased him ; at any rate, his face was inscru- 
table. His cool, unimpressed attitude certainly incited Kate to fresh 
efforts. She waxed sarcastic as well as warm. 

“ Sometimes,” she resumed, “ I’m inclined to think, with Mrs. 
French-Chichester, that man is literally all self, a creature bound to 
his own ego as to a post, and railed round with iron spikes of self- 
interest. I speak to my father of Simon, and he shrugs his shoul- 
ders without a word; to the vicar, and he looks blank as a wall and 
fetches a hopeless sigh ; to Terence, and he changes the subject with 
an angry jerk of his head.” 

“ But my son has been away all these months,” urged Mr. Rush, 
anxiously. 

16 


242 


“ I’m talking generalities,” snapped Kate. 

“ Rather particular generalities,” the captain remarked, dryly. 

“ I shall be more particular directly. I say it’s a shame, a burn- 
ing shame, that no hand should be raised to help Simon. He’ll 
leave the country soon for good — for I know his plans — drift away 
into the world without a spoken regret to follow him, without a 
soul to care whether he lives or dies.” 

“ I fear it will be so,” sighed Mr. Rush, “ though already there’s 
a feeble sort of reaction in his favor. Many a time have I heard 
’em jeer at his schemes and hobbies, and explain away his merits, as 
people are so clever at doing. But I do think this last matter of the 
hospital has set ’em wondering a bit; and they do speak kind of him 
here and there just now.” 

“ Oh yes,” quoth Kate, “ most people keep a little justice and 
charity locked up somewhere in chests and drawers, and offer us a 
spoonful or two when the struggle’s over and we need it no more. 
Why, we may look for kindness even, once we’re past using it !” 

“ I’m bound to say, however ” — the exasperating captain seemed 
bent upon trying Kate’s temper to the utmost — “ that Simon has 
not yet given his public a chance of unlocking the chests and drawers 
you were speaking of.” 

Kate glared at the speaker and relapsed into silence. Mr. Rush 
murmured something deprecating at his son, but was quenched by a 
single glance. 

Julius proceeded with an unruffled front and the assurance of one 
who is complete master of the field. 

“ And now. Miss Tredethlyn, as I have listened to your strictures 
with some patience, you will perhaps allow me to explain that I had, 
even before coming here, made a resolution to undertake the quest 
which you have urged upon me with such eloquence — indeed, that 
the object of our visit was simply the gaining of information that 
might further that undertaking. I intend to penetrate the mystery, 
and shall give all my spare time to the quest until some solution 
can be arrived at. But I believe that to rush at it in an impulsive 
feminine sort of way would be to court failure.” 

Kate still wore a frown ; but a smile miglit be read between the 
lines of it. 

“ Why didn’t you say so before?” she asked, the fire in her eyes 
still smouldering. 

He made no answer, though his square chin seemed to say, “You 
never gave me a chance !” 


243 


“ May I ask what your plan of campaign may be, Captain Rush ?” 

“ In the first place, I propose to employ a private detective. Has 
that intention your approval ?” 

“ Certainly not. This is not a case for a mere common profes- 
sional man ; it needs sympathetic insight of a special character to 
penetrate the motives of a man like Simon.” 

“ I’m sorry you don’t approve ; but I shall try the detective.” 

“ When he has failed,” said Kate, icily, “ perhaps you will again 
come to me for advice.” 

“ Very likely. What would you in that case suggest?” 

“I should say, go and consult Ezekiel Doidge. That man cares 
more than any living person about finding out the truth of the mat- 
ter; and he has in his possession all the trinkets, letters, and such 
things of his dead sweetheart. He is shrewd, too, and keen as a 
sleuth-hound. I believe you and Mr. Doidge together might delve 
out the heart of the mystery. You might right Simon in the face 
of all men, restore him to his father, save for him his patrimony, 
which now stands to be thrown to the dogs or handed over to public 
charities ; and so might earn the deep gratitude of the one or two 
friends he has left in the world.” 

“ I’m glad you’re hopeful, but shall try my own plan first.” 

“ I don’t doubt that for an instant. And the plan will fail.” 

“ Not until it has had a fair trial, however.” 

Captain Rush then turned to his father and suggested that it was 
time to be going ; and the squire, of course, rose obediently to the 
hint. Miss Tredethlyn and Julius then exchanged a final defiant 
glance, and the party broke up, the squire carrying with him a treas- 
ure in the shape of a new and piquant sensation. Kate had warmly 
pressed his hand. 


CHAPTER XXX 


What of Terence Clancy since we saw him some months ago? 
He has enjoyed good health, and, at least to the superficial observer, 
such an average allowance of happiness as every man who has not 
actually committed a murder considers his due. His practice grows 
and flourishes ; his popularity, so far from being on the wane, has 
deepened and widened. He esteems and reverences his wife more 
than ever, and still loves her a good deal. Yet Terence has still a 
reserve fund of unsatisfied desires, and is in possession of several 
pegs good enough to hang self-pity upon. 

His beautiful wife, for instance, is from one point of view a some- 
what costly possession, involving the maintenance of a high moral 
level of daily life, the breathing of an ethical atmosphere too fine 
for perfect comfort. What his nature really demands of woman 
is a smooth caressing tolerance, a sympathetic acceptance of the bad 
in him as well as the good, a tender worship of Terence Clancy as he 
stands. Now Nell has measured him for a hero, and her insistently 
high opinion of him seems to hang upon him like the proverbial 
giant’s robe ; insomuch that it is a relief sometimes to get among 
inferior women, with no troublesome ideal to be lived up to. 

Even in his professional rounds he feels that Nell’s eye is upon 
him. She is always keeping him up to the mark, always thinking 
of how to clear off that tiresome debt to Simon. Yet she never 
nags or harasses’ him, and he freely admits to himself that, without 
her constant encouragement, he would before now have sunk into 
abject idleness. For Terence hates work, and knows that he does. 
The drudgery of his profession sits so heavily upon him that at 
times he has it in him to sell the practice and live in a cottage on 
the proceeds. 

Such minor troubles seem to call for attention first as being the 
most insistent, and those most often discussed with a man’s self. 
But of the deeper pains that gnaw silently, and cling miasma -like 
about the secret parts of the soul, Terence has some knowledge. 

Here, again, Nell is in a measure to blame. With a wife of lower 
moral calibre his conscience would not be so uneasy ; but Nell is 


245 


like a fire near which self-comforting sophistry shrivels up and dies. 
To be happy with a woman of an honesty so rigid, of so crystal-clear 
a conscience, he should either be a much better man or a much 
worse ; either as spotless as herself, or free enough from virtuous 
prejudice to despise her ideal and laugh over it in secret. As it is, 
what might have been but a speck upon his consciousness is an ugly 
blotch which time fails to erase. His sin of treachery to Simon is 
not “ever before him,” but it underlies other things and crops up 
just when he looks for peace. 

But, confession being a thing that he has ceased even to contem- 
plate as a possibility, there remains to Terence nothing but the weak 
man’s anodyine — compromise. He is aware that public opinion is 
softening towards Simon, and can afford to take comfort from that 
knowledge. For he has little to fear on his own account now — the 
hue-and-cry being practically over — and in time people will doubt- 
less come to forgive the supposed culprit, and allow his many good 
deeds to counterpoise that one bad slip. As to Sir Hamo, Terence 
fully intends to bring about a reconciliation between him and Si- 
mon. He means to change his own views gradually, to become, 
after a time, doubtful as to Simon’s guilt, to lead the old man along 
the groove of this changed attitude until he shall be ready to take 
back his son into favor. 

As Terence and his wife are now so frequently at the Hall, some- 
times living there for several weeks in succession, this plan seems 
the more feasible. Meanwhile, Sir Hamo’s romantic affection for 
Nell grows, rather than diminishes, with declining health — a state of 
things that no one perceives more clearly than Mrs. French-Chiches- 
ter. She begins to perceive that all her pains will probably result in the 
substitution of Nell Clancy in the place of Kathleen French-Chichester 
successor to Simon the prodigal. Other shrewd observers, too, are 
speculating as to the outcome of Sir Hamo’s fatherly love, hinting 
slyly that Clancy is playing his cards well. But herein their shrewd- 
ness was much astray, for mercenary calculations had no place among 
Terence’s faults ; and the prospect of seeing Nell enriched at Simon’s 
expense, had it occurred to him at all, would only have increased his 
existing mental harassments. 

And one thing more must be touched upon — for now we are upon 
the subject of that somewhat shattered thing, poor Terence’s con- 
science, it were well to make a clean breast — there is yet another 
secret weighing upon the man, and this one pricks the sharper for 
being of a professional nature. 


246 


For, if somewhat false and fickle in other relations, Terence has 
been hitherto without blemish professionally — or had been up to the 
time of Doidge’s denunciation of Simon. From the small frauds 
and trickeries practised by medical men of crooked tendencies he 
had kept free; in fact, to do him full justice, had been a perfectly* 
honest doctor. But in respect of this one patient, Ezekiel Doidge, 
there was now deep unrest in his mind. 

His physical examination of Doidge on the night before the 
cricket-club meeting had exercised Terence’s diagnosing faculty se- 
verely. There had been no actual revelation, such as would compel 
him at once to take action or to give up calling himself an honest 
man ; but certain subtle indications, meaningless to a man of ordi- 
nary ability, though to his analytical sense suggestive of the presence 
of a mortal disease. He had, of course, intended to examine the 
patient further when opportunity should arise, but his dread of be- 
ing brought into contact with Ezekiel had resulted in procrastination. 

Meanwhile he sopped his conscience by causing his assistant, Jack 
Syme, to put the patient through a searching examination, which re- 
sulted, however, simply in a verdict of general nervous debility. 

So far, well ; but since then, possibly owing to Nell’s unconscious 
influence, Terence’s better self had been worrying him somewhat in 
the following fashion : “ Syme has but commonplace ability ; you 
might almost as well have handed over your patient to a solicitor or 
a parson ; and you never gave Syme the key of your suspicion, you 
never once breathed the word ‘aneurism.’ You ought to investigate 
the case yourself without delay. If the man has an aortic aneurism 
it will, unless properly treated, grow steadily; one day it will burst, 
and he’ll fall dead in a heap. Hpw will you feel about it then, 
Terence Clancy ? You should at once take steps to verify your sus- 
picions ; if they hold good he should be laid on his back, kept from 
all excitement, dosed with iodide, treated like cracked china.” 

Upon this aneurism, or enlargement of a great blood-vessel, Ter- 
ence’s mind kept running ; but still he took no step beyond the 
construction, and subsequent demolition, of a whole series of good 
resolutions. To make up his mind to see Doidge was a nightly 
task, to escape the task through pressure of other business a daily 
achievement. But the mental perturbation increased, while his fear 
of Ezekiel lessened. There came a day, some two weeks after Julius 
Rush’s entry upon the new quest, when Terence had knit himself up 
to the requisite pitch, and was actually on his way to the mill, pro- 
posing to consult Doidge upon some question of the Angling Asso- 


247 


ciation, then in course of conversation to speak of his health, and so 
work his way on by degrees to the needful examination. 

Terence found it quite a journey to Doidge’s mill, which lay but 
a short distance above the town. He walked rapidly as far as the 
town bridge, but at that point his ardor slackened. He began to 
think of other patients having claims upon his prompt attention ; his 
will began to ooze away as though his mind had sprung a leak some- 
where. Fingers seemed to beckon him north, south, and west, while 
every fibre of him shrank from the eastward road. But Nell, who 
had unknowingly driven him hither, urged him to fresh effort; the 
thought of returning to her with one stain washed from his con- 
science stiffened the yielding will. He walked on again, stopping 
here and there, pausing and loitering, but not once turning back. 

Now at length he was past the cemetery ; now had reached the 
second bridge over the Chilling, and the murmur of the stream was 
full of depression for him. The mill was now barely fifty yards 
distant; the hum and beat of its machinery were even more dis- 
tasteful than the noise of the river. 

There was nothing picturesque about Doidge’s flour-mill. It con- 
sisted of a group of new stone buildings, placed astride the Chilling, 
and having a physiognomy suggestive of business energy and solid 
success. Above the roofs towered a tall brick chimney, for Doidge 
used steam as w'ell as waterpower; many wheels were plashing, 
many stones grinding ; whitened men were working busily ; clerks 
coming to and from the office; carts piled with sacks passing in and 
out of the spacious yard. 

As Clancy entered this yard the busy workaday aspect of the 
place impressed him in a wholesome fashion, for in so bustling and 
cheerful scene there was nothing for morbid fear to fasten upon. 
Strolling into the office for a moment or two, he further steadied his 
nerves by a little gossip with Doidge’s foreman; and thereafter 
inarched through the flower-garden to the miller’s front door with a 
better head of courage than he had been able to muster since leaving 
the town bridge. 

“ Yes, Mr. Doidge was at home, but engaged ” — Terence’s heart 
leaped ; “ yet doubtless he would see Dr. Clancy ” — the heart sank 
again. 

Terence was conducted down a long passage into a small wain- 
scoted parlor, the miller’s favorite sitting-room. Its one window 
looked out upon a breadth of meadow land, cattle-trimmed, inter- 
sected by the shining river ; and all the land visible from the arm* 


248 


chair by the window was Ezekiel’s own. Thence he could watch a 
long reach of the stream, issuing forth occasionally to pounce upon 
any ticketless stranger whose rod might be seen waving on either 
bank. 

Doidge was seated here to-day, but with his back to the light, and 
never a thought going poacherward. 

He rose eagerly to greet Terence, his eyes gleaming, his hands and 
limbs jerking nervously. Seated at the table, with a cigar between 
his teeth, was Captain Julius Rush. 

Clancy drew a deep breath of relief ; for though conscious that 
Rush disliked him heartily, he was ready to greet as a friend in need 
any one who should make the dreaded t6te-a-t6te impossible. 

The slightest of greetings passed between the dragoon and the doc- 
tor ; then the latter seated himself hastily, and, with the air of one 
who has not a moment to spare, put a question to Doidge bearing 
upon certain rights of the Angling Association. 

The miller waved the question aside impatiently — 

“ Can’t talk about that nonsense now, doctor ; we’ve got somethin’ 
a deal more important in hand. Captain ” — he turned abruptly to 
his other guest — “ I move we take Dr. Clancy into our confidence !” 

Captain Rush shook his head and threw one leg over the other 
impatiently ; but Doidge was wont to follow his own wishes, while 
regarding those of other people as whims. Accordingly, he remained 
upon his feet, and emphasizing each sentence with his restless hand, 
began to explain why Captain Rush had come to see him, and how 
vigorously he was about to plunge into Captain Rush’s quest. 

The latter, having now no choice as to making a confidant of Clancy, 
and perhaps expecting to get one or two useful hints from him, de- 
tailed to both listeners the steps he had already taken. He had be- 
gun by getting a private detective down from towm, equipping him 
with such information as he possessed, and setting him to work in a 
business-like fashion ; and, after ten days of careful investigation, 
the infallible professional had this morning delivered his report and 
verdict — to the effect that the case was clear as day, that Mr. Secre- 
tan was, without a shadow of doubt, the guilty party. 

“ The numskull !” cried Ezekiel, with a stamp ; “ the addle-pated 
fool ! Just what a damned professional idiot like that would say !” 

“ Then you agree with my father and myself ?” asked Rush. “ I 
quite expected to find a diflficulty in bringing you round to our view 
of the question.” 

“ Look here !” cried the miller, in a blaze of excitement, “ first I’m 


249 


going to swefir you both to secrecy, then I shall be free to put you 
up to a thing or two . . . God’s truth, what ails you, sir? You’m as 
white as a sheet !” 

“ Rather faint,” muttered Clancy, shakily ; “throw up the window, 
will you? I had a bad cropper on the last day of the hunting sea- 
son — you’ll remember it. Rush ? — and I’ve been liable to go faint 
like this ever since. I’m half afraid there’s some internal injury.” 

“ Lord, Lord, and I’ve never so much as offered you a drink !” 
Doidge hastily drew a decanter of whiskey and some glasses from 
the cupboard. “ Come, have a liquor, doctor ; ’tis fine old whiskey, 
and will straighten you up in no time. Captain, have a glass, sir, 
and pardon my forgetfulness. Damme, sirs, let us drink success to 
the new chase ! I reckon us ’ll kill afore the month’s out. Come, 
fill up. Dr. Clancy. Here’s to a hot scent and a fast run !” 

Terence filled with his back to the others. The strong draught 
brought the blood back to his cheeks, his spirits began to rise. He 
felt now as a man with back to wall and face to foe ; to fight had 
at last become easier than to run away. His brain had become 
intensely clear, every nerve was now on the alert ; he had never 
realized until this moment his own power and skill and cunning. 
He felt this sickly hysterical enemy to be as a mere child in his 
hands; he perceived, too, the enormous advantage to himself of 
thus being called to a seat at the enemy’s council-board, of knowing 
every hostile move before it could be put into execution. Surely 
the veriest fool, with such odds in his favor, might expect to non- 
plus them ! He drank again, and turned genially to his host. 

“ Grand whiskey, this, Mr. Doidge. You dispense a medicine 
worth more than my whole drug- shop put together. I’m right 
as a trivet again already ; let us hear what you were going to 
say.” 

“ I’m to understand clearly that I have your promise of secrecy ? 
That you’ll both keep fast hold o’ your tongues until such time as I 
loose ’em ?” 

The soldier nodded gravely. The doctor cried,- boisterously : 

“ Aye, aye, fire away, man ; don’t kill us with suspense !” 

“ Then, harkee, you two ” — Doidge bent forward, fixing upon 
them eyes brilliant with excitement — “ I’ve been hunting false all 
along. Mr. Secretan had nothin’ to do with my poor girl’s trouble; 
never made love to her ; had no hand whatever in bringing about 
her death.” 

“ Ah !” murmured the captain, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. 


260 


“How do you know that?” asked Clancy, in a dry, sceptical 
voice. 

Doidge detailed hurriedly how he had tracked Simon, been on 
the point of shooting him, and in the nick of time had learned the 
truth from Joyce’s words. 

Terence paled again. The picture of this crazed fellow dogging 
his enemy night after night, gun in hand, filled him with a creeping 
sickness. He drank again, and took a fresh grip of his courage. 

“ He’s a fool, a crazy monomaniac,” he kept repeating to him- 
self. “ I shall outwit him to a certainty.” 

“ Yes,” concluded the miller, “ I had my finger crooked on the 
trigger ; ’twas Joyce that saved his life.” 

“ But suppose he had hoodwinked the woman ?” 

“ Impossible, doctor. Joyce was Mary’s bosom friend, and. in all 
her secrets. It wa’n’t Secretan, I tell you. Joyce’s voice bored the 
fact of his innocence right into me. He’s blameless as I am — 
more so, for he watched over her, while I never stirred a finger to 
save her.” 

“ In that case,” interposed Rush, “ I must trouble you to proclaim 
my friend’s innocence at once. He has borne another man’s blame 
long enough.” 

“ Lookee, captain, you’m a bit simpler than I thought. Can’t 
you see that by keeping up that fiction we lull the real man into 
seeming security — that Mr. Secretan’s supposed guilt is a ready- 
made stalking-horse for we ?” 

“ I can see,” retorted the captain, stormfully, “ that it’s a cursed 
shame to let him live another day uncleared, and, what’s more, I 
won’t permit such a thing !” 

“ I don’t care about you, or your friend, or any one else. I 
don’t care who suffers, or what happens, or whether I live or die, so 
I find out Mary’s murderer !” 

“ I’ll force you to clear Secretan !” 

“ I have your promise,” shouted Doidge, cursing furiously. 
“You’m no gentleman, no man, if you go back on your word ; 
you’m a cur even to talk of betrayin’ me !” 

Here was a brave beginning ; with his enemies knocking their 
heads together thus, Terence might well afford to grow hopeful. 

“I decline further speech with you. Go your own way, and I’ll 
go mine. You’re no better than a madman. I must have broken 
with you anyway, for I see you mean murder. I’ll have none of 
that. I’ll have a curb put on you somehow.” 


251 


Captain Rush arose, clutching his hat and stick, and regarding 
poor Doidge with angry contempt. Terence already felt that the 
plot had collapsed, that he himself would be the miller’s coadjutor; 
but this hopeful conclusion was a thought too hasty, the danger 
was not yet over. 

For as Ezekiel, swelling and scowling with indignation, stood 
watching the captain’s exit, he put forth his hand to grasp the table, 
and touched a writing-desk which had been lying there since the 
beginning of the interview. He looked down at the desk, and his 
face changed. 

“ Don’t go, sir,” he muttered, brokenly. “ Lord forgive me for 
helpin’ to spoil my poor girl’s chance ! Stand by me, sir, even 
though I be a hot-tongued fool. I ain’t fit to hunt the man down 
alone ; my strength has been failin’ these months ; and — and I can’t 
do nothin’ without help, nowadays. Don’t be afeard that I mean 
any violence ; I tried that tack once and found I had no stomach 
for’t ; too much of a coward for that, now my health’s gone — too 
much broke and wore out and shattered, I reckon ! There’s a 
Bible yonder ; I’ll take my oath on’t, if you like.” 

“ What is your intention, then ? I don’t move a step with you 
till I know that, Doidge.” 

“To track him down,” said Ezekiel, solemnly laying his hand 
upon the desk; “to spend every bit o’ health and energy left me, 
and every farthin’ I possess, in findin’ him out and bringin’ ruin on 
him.” 

“ I have your solemn promise to drop all thought of violence ?” 

“You have, sir. An’ for my poor girl’s sake, stand by a poor 
devil who ha’n’t more than a year or two left to work in.” 

“You’re not fit for this strain and excitement, Doidge,” the doc- 
tor interposed. “ I warn you distinctly that you’re shortening your 
life by going on thus. Give up this insane pursuit and lead a quiet 
life, taking care never to overtask or over-excite yourself, and your 
health may be restored.” 

“I’m cool enough now,” said Ezekiel, “and I sha’n’t break out 
again. I’m gettin’ hopeful, and that does me good. With the help 
o’ you two ni get through this job, after which I don’t care what 
comes to me. Look here, sir” — he turned to Captain Rush as the 
latter resumed his seat — “you can guess what things I have put away 
in this desk ?” 

The soldier nodded gravely. Terence shuddered and palpitated. 
The faintness was coming over him again, and the worst moment 


252 


was yet to be faced. He knew not what relics of poor Mary’s dead 
romance were to be laid before him. No thinkable ordeal could 
have been more painful to him than this that was coming. Even 
Doidge himself, had he known all, could hardly have devised for his 
enemy a sharper punishment. He had to bend over the desk with 
the others, but contrived to stand behind them, leaning heavily upon 
a corner of the table, and once more the extremity of his danger was 
fortifying. 

The soldier looked down with sympathy and interest as Doidge 
unlocked the desk and threw back the cover. Ezekiel himself seemed 
transformed for the moment; his animal passions seemed to fall 
away, as though he were in the actual presence of his dead love ; his 
hand strayed forward as a mother’s towards a sleeping child. 

He first drew forth a ring, a dainty little thing set with a single 
pearl of small value. __ 

Terence felt the sting of tears in his eyes ; he remembered Mary’s 
humble joy on receiving the trinket, how she had kissed it and cried 
over it, and been silent for an hour after he had placed it on her 
finger. Almost he had it in him to cry aloud, “The culprit stands 
here before you. Do your worst ; for you can’t hate him more bit- 
terly than he hates himself !” 

But when the miller handed to Captain Rush a copy of Moore’s 
Melodies, Terence’s remorseful longing was at once obliterated by 
fear. There would be his own handwriting to greet him from the 
title-page. He turned away for one insupportable moment. 

“ Title-page torn out,” remarked Rush, grimly ; “ evidently the poor 
girl has spared no pains to baffle us. Nothing but a few marks and 
annotations in pencil — all half erased. This book will not advance 
us an inch upon our way. Have you no letters or notes, or even a 
single line in the man’s handwriting?” 

“ Not a line,” sighed Doidge. 

Under this new encouragement Terence’s crushed spirit uprose; 
he was able to handle the relics — one or two more books, some 
dried forget-me-nots, and other trifling keepsakes — and to offer a 
few appropriate comments upon the difficulties of the situation. 

There was nothing more to be examined; but they sat long dis- 
cussing a plan of campaign, Terence bearing his part with the oth- 
ers, and skilfully laying false tracks for them whenever an opportu- 
nity arose. Under his delicate manipulation they were always kept 
wide of the true road; but the strain and stress of his position told 
heavily upon him the while. When they at length separated he felt 


263 


weak and shattered and full of gloomy foreboding; nor was his 
conscience eased one jot in respect of Ezekiel’s physical condition, 
for he had noted more than one subtle token tending to substantiate 
his fears — or were they now hopes? 

Slowly and painfully Terence dragged himself up the hill towards 
the White House, yearning only to throw himself upon Nell’s mercy, 
entreat her to take him out of the miserable net in which he had 
become entangled, to begin with him a new life in some distant 
country. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


While Terence was working out at the mill the sentence pro- 
nounced upon him by Nemesis, Nell was sitting at home indulging 
in morbid introspection. This was not a usual failing of hers, but 
Terence’s restless, unsettled condition was beginning to make its 
mark upon his wife. She had not the comfortable stupidity which 
blunders cheerfully along, unperceptive of, and consequently un- 
harassed by, any but its own personal cares, nor had she now that 
absolute trust in Terence which would some months ago have attrib- 
uted his troubled state to the wear of professional anxieties or other 
legitimate causes. Ills disquiet now filled her with a dull pain, for 
which the routine of household duties was no sufficient antidote. 

Towards the end of the forenoon she took her work down to a 
rustic seat among the shrubs at the bottom of the garden, resolving 
to ply her needle hard, and leave thinking alone altogether. As 
well have made up her mind to let breathing alone ; thought but 
flowed the swifter for being dammed up by will for a brief period. 

Nell began to review her life since marriage with a candor she had 
never before permitted herself. Hitherto self -blame had sufficed 
when anything had to be explained away^ but now reason demanded 
that Terence too should be criticised. It seemed that she must 
either blame him mildly, or herself grow bitter; must let the dis- 
satisfied corner of her mind have its say before she could perceive 
how best to undertake Terence’s defence. He still loved and rev- 
erenced her. With these grand central facts to support her she 
could surely afford to consider his little failings with calmness. For 
instance, let it be frankly admitted that he had a certain tender flirt- 
ing way with women that often gave her jealous pangs, a certain 
crying need for the confidence and sympathy of every pretty girl 
who crossed his path. Well, this was, after all, nothing but an 
efflorescence of good-nature. She ought to take shame to herself 
for such paltry jealousy. 

Again, Terence had a little weakness, which she now touched upon 
with a quick, pained flush, for small falsehoods— mere blarneyings 
sometimes, doubtless springing from the same source as the other 


265 


weakness. She had herself a powerful bias in the direction of strict 
truth ; but, then, Terence was far more good-natured than she, and 
over-kindness is surely an amiable failing. She had noticed a simi- 
lar tendency in his two little brothers, now domiciled at the White 
House, and going daily to the best school in the town. Towards 
these little red -headed fellows Nell had played the part of a true 
mother ; but their trickiness had somehow diluted the affection she 
had tried hard to give them. They were rough, noisy, and without 
any of Terence’s physical refinement; indeed, to be perfectly frank, 
they were common-looking. But had they been honest boys, Nell 
felt that she could have loved them well. 

This kindly moral weakness of her husband’s sometimes produced 
a dull ache in Nell’s mind, as well as a sense of alarmed expectation. 
There were possibilities about him not hitherto suspected. The 
mind which had been to her as an open book was discovered to have 
dim corners into which she feared to penetrate. He had certainly 
deceived her, or allowed her to glide into an erroneous impression, 
as to his people ; for it was clear, from a dozen explanatory trifles 
let fall by the small brothers, that the Clancys were not exactly 
the poor gentle-folks pictured to herself and others. Nor would 
Terence on any account allow her to pay them a visit. 

They are a bit rough at home, dear,” he had explained once or 
twice. “ And, you see, I had to blarney you a bit, or maybe you’d 
never have learned to love me.” 

This, with a smile and a caress, adjusted the matter perfectly, as 
he thought, and was very honest and straightforward to boot ; but 
there was a “ but ” involved here, as in other matters, when viewed 
with Nell’s eyes. 

In brief, it will be seen that the denuding forces of real life had 
been paring down the ideal image of a husband that Nell had set 
up, as wind, rain, and frost wear away even hard rock. She had re- 
sisted the denudation with all the power of a strong, loyal nature, 
but the figure had been slowly “ weathered ” nevertheless. 

As Nell came to this admission in the course of her thinking, 
some tears fell upon the work with which her hands were resolutely 
busy. She perceived, moreover, that there was nothing to be done ; 
by no conceivable treatment could she infiltrate strict honesty into 
a character like Terence’s. It was like a sieve, very suitable for 
holding ordinary grain, but incapable of retaining the fine gold-dust 
of absolute truth. Had this disillusion come suddenly she might 
have despaired ; but so gradual had been the process that her pres- 


2^6 


ent task consisted of the mere summing up of previous impressions, 
and the spreading out of their results for inspection. 

Nor was she one to sit still and allow a grievance to ravage her 
heart and mind at its will, for Nell had the combative spirit that 
loves not surrender. Having allowed herself to draw the veil from 
truth, she would neither cover it up again nor shrink from regarding 
it. It was clear to her that she must either readjust her conception 
of life, learning to take things and people as they are, or sink into a 
state of permanent morbid depression. She must, in fact, learn to 
take Terence as a whole, together with all his limitations, to love 
him in spite of his failings. The decision cheered and strengthened 
her ; and, being unaware that her relation to Terence was of a kind 
as old as the human race, her solution of the difficulty one of the 
most ordinary and inevitable in the long history of woman’s love, 
she felt something of an inventor’s triumph. It appeared that she 
had done a clever thing, as well as the right thing; wherefore her 
self-respect was increased, her conscience satisfied. 

When the boys came home from school, Nell went up the garden 
to welcome them. They rushed in, bawling, stamping, and banging 
doors, but they clung to and caressed her as a mother. To them, 
at least, she had done her duty straitly, so here again she felt 
cheered. 

Presently she saw them fairly started upon a fishing excursion, 
heavily victualled, and burning with enthusiasm, and herself returned 
to the garden with some of their good spirits reflected on her face. 

Upon emerging from the bushes she found Terence, somewhat to 
her surprise, reclining on the garden-seat. He must have come in 
by the lower gate in the wall ; and she perceived at once from his 
attitude that something was wrong with him. He looked harassed 
and overwrought, and, as he caught sight of his wife, his face took 
an expression of something like terror. 

Nell was almost rejoiced to find him thus with his trouble at the 
climax point. Now was her opportunity for bold entry upon the 
new course. She would force his confidence, as she ought to have 
done long ago, and inoculate him with her own growing courage. 
She sat down close beside her husband, laying a slender hand entic- 
ingly upon his shoulder. 

“ What is it, Terence dear? Has something upset you? or is it 
that you’ve been overworked lately ? I know there has been some- 
thing on your mind, and blame myself for not being more sym- 
pathetic and considerate the last few weeks. You must forgive me, 


267 


dear, and let me share your troubles, for really, really I’m not so 
very hard-judging; at least, I won’t be any more.” 

The young wife looked very sweet and winning as she bent over 
him with parted lips and eyes full of sympathy ; but her look and 
touch were too much for Terence in his present state. What dregs 
of spirit and courage the trying scene at the mill had left him evap- 
orated, and a gush of profound self-pity overwhelmed him. He sank 
on his knees beside Nell, buried his head in her lap, and sobbed 
like a child. 

Nell put her arms about his neck, and they wept together, and 
this miserable moment had a core of strange happiness for them 
both. The constraint which had been growing between husband 
and wife was broken down. Nell felt that all his faults were being 
swept away in the outrush of her pity, that he was all her own, to 
be cherished and comforted and loved ; while he felt that, come 
what might, she loved him ; that this love of a wife, noble and 
faultless in his eyes, was a thing to lean upon and take refuge in. 
Could he but keep this, he might hope to bear up against whatso- 
ever shame or disgrace might be in store for him. 

“ Dearest, tell me your trouble,” urged Nell, with courage in her 
voice as well as tenderness. “Let me bear it with you. Won’t you 
let your own wife help you ?” 

“ I’m miserable, Nell, miserable,” he groaned. “ There’s a bitter 
enemy seeking to ruin me.” 

“ What can he do ? What possible hold can he have upon you ? 
Won’t you tell me?” 

There was a flutter of Nell’s eyes now, but she managed to keep 
it out of her voice. 

“ He’ll ruin me, Nell ! I tell you he has power to do it.” 

“ What is it, Terence ? Oh, pray tell me at once?” 

“ You shrink from me already — I feel that you shrink from me.” 

“ No, I don’t shrink ; but the suspense tortures me. It would 
comfort me to know the worst at once.” 

“ Nell, you might hate me if I told you.” 

“ I could never hate you, Terence — I think not, I hope not, I’m 
sure not !” 

“ Could you give up a great deal for me? hold fast to me through 
— through heavy troubles?” 

“ I know that I could,” she answered, proudly. “ If there be any 
money difficulty, do' not hesitate to tell me all. We can give up our 
house, go into a mere cottage, and work harder. I don’t fear 
17 


268 


poverty ; I only fear lest this wretched secret may eat away our love 
if you persist in withholding from me your confidence. Tell me all, 
1 entreat you.’’ 

“ Could you even leave the country with me, and begin life anew 
in a foreign land ?” 

“ I could do that and more.” Nell’s answer came without hesita- 
tion ; but her face was getting pale and drawn, she had begun to 
dread the coming revelation exceedingly. 

Terence, feeling how her arms and hands trembled, grew fearful 
again ; his heart sank lower and lower. The anguish of confessing 
all was too sharp to be faced, and a half-confession was not possible. 
He might bring himself to say, “ I was Mary Pethick’s lover,” were 
it not that this one statement would involve the further admission — 
“ I have let Simon bear my punishment all these months.” To the 
first offence he might plead guilty; to the second, never. Nothing 
should ever drag from him the admission of his treachery to Simon ; 
he could neither abase himself so low, nor exalt Simon to such a 
pitch. There was jealousy involved as well as fear; the two together 
overmastered him now, and would continue to do so to the end of 
the chapter. His fit of despair was passing, too. The mere giving 
way to his emotions and outpouring of his heaviness had given him 
relief; a sanguine streak was already illumining his depression. He 
began to perceive that he had too readily given way to panic and 
pessimism. What danger worthy of all this fright was attachable to 
a few faded flowers and a book with half-erased annotations? The 
sight of the ring had scared him most, but he began to reflect now 
upon the extreme improbability of its leading to any discovery. He 
had bought it at a small jeweller’s shop, buried in the most crowded 
part of Lymport, a great seaport town. He was a perfect stranger 
to the shopman, had paid in gold for the ring without even men- 
tioning his name; he had scarcely been in the shop five min- 
utes. Tush! conscience should make a puling coward of him no 
longer. 

But this same cowardice had already landed Terence in a dilemma. 
How was he to satisfy this anxious wife of his ? He remained with 
his face buried in her lap, thinking how to solve the new problem. 

Meanwhile the suspense'was telling upon Nell. His talk of leav- 
ing the country was full of alarming suggestion. Was he about to 
confess some crime? Was her affection, already somewhat bruised 
and strained, to be put to some insupportable test ? 

“Nell!” 


259 


“ Yes, dear.” Her voice trembled now, and her breath came 
short ; his long silence had made self-control very difficult. 

“ Have I frightened you, little Nell ?” 

“ A little, Terence.” 

“ Sure I was always a morbid fool, Nellie ; given to take things 
hardly, to make a mountain out of every mole-hill of worry. You 
were right as to my being overworked, and I suppose I must take a 
holiday soon. Tve been worrying a great deal lately, as you know 
— it has been about a case, dear.” 

“ Tell me about it ; to talk over the trouble will be a relief to us 
both.” 

“Yes, yes, it will. I’ll tell you all about it, though, of course, 
there’s no need to mention the man’s name. The long and short of 
it is that I’ve made a bad blunder in diagnosis — a most unusual 
thing with me, little Nell, for I.’*m rather strong in that direction. 
A patient came to me some time ago with what I now believe to be 
an aneurism, or swelling of a great blood-vessel ; a dangerous, prob- 
ably incurable, trouble. I failed to perceive this, assumed him to 
be suffering only from general debility, and so the mischief has been 
allowed to grow unchecked. My error is likely to cost the man his 
life, do you see?” 

“I am listening, Terence.” 

“This blunder will be a slur upon my professional skill ; it may 
cost me ever so many patients, may go far towards ruining my 
practice and reducing us to downright poverty. You don’t seem to 
appreciate how serious are the probable consequences of this slip of 
mine ?” 

“ I’m listening to all you say.” 

“ I do wish you’d be more sympathetic, Nell. You don’t under- 
stand how painful to a man of any ability the discovery of such a 
blunder must be ! And my enemies are certain to make the most of 
it. I say it may cost me rny practice, and I can’t face the thought 
of plunging a beloved wife into poverty without pain and horror. 
Surely you must see that ’tis yourself I’m so anxious about?” 

Terence was now seated beside his wife, looking uneasily at her 
downcast face. There was something vexations, if not alarming, 
about her wooden reception of this explanation. He was telling the 
literal truth— or, at least, but a slightly modified version of it — and 
his manner of narration was so consummately natural as almost to 
impose upon himself. He had almost persuaded himself into the 
belief that the aneurism was really his central troitble just now, 


260 


How could she fail to be properly impressed by his plain state- 
ment? 

“Have you nothing to say, Nell?” His tone was that of a man 
somewhat hurt, but too considerate of her to make any complaint. 

If Nell had anything to say she was unable to get the words out. 
She wanted to put several questions ; to ask, “ Who are your ene- 
mies? How could a mere error in judgment like that cause in you 
the terror and despair which I noticed but a few minutes ago ?” 

But she was sick at heart, and in need of all her powers for the 
difficult task of self-persuasion. She had to believe what he said, 
was resolutely setting her mind to do so ; but to accomplish this 
task it was first needful to crush a powerful sceptical instinct. Ter- 
ence’s face wore the deprecating, feminine kind of smile that she 
had learned to associate with tarradiddles, small or great. 

Her looks remaining troubled, her eyes declining to meet his, 
Terence’s smile faded. He took her hand and kissed it with mourn- 
ful tenderness. She evidently misunderstood him, his manner'seeraed 
to say, but nothing could ever abate his chivalrous affection for her. 

Nell was miserable at her inability to respond to his caress, and 
yearned the more to be convinced. 

“ What steps do you now intend to take ?” she asked, timidly. 

“I’m going to see Jack Syme about it now, tell him my views, 
and send him to see the man to-morrow. Jack has seen him once 
already, and fallen into the same mistake as myself ; but there are 
fresh symptoms now, and I have little doubt but that he will agree 
with my present view of the case.” 

“But — but why not go yourself, Terence?” 

“ It is especially necessary not to alarm or excite the patient, and 
I think that danger will be lessened if I only send my assistant. I 
shall afterwards confer with Jack, and the patient will be treated 
entirely under my direction.” 

Terence had now really made up his mind to impart his views to 
his assistant, and set him to work to minutely examine Ezekiel. He 
was greatly relieved at the thought of thus shifting the responsibil- 
ity over to Jack’s shoulders; for now, were Ezekiel in course of 
time to die of this aneurism, surely he, Terence, need feel no qualm 
of conscience in the matter? Furthermore, it was a comfort to 
have told a considerable portion of the truth to Nell. True, she 
seemed thoughtful and perturbed at present, but women are odd 
creatures ; very likely she would be quite herself again before they 
could reach the house. 


261 


“ Take my arm, Nellie,” he concluded, cheerfully, “ and let us go 
up the garden together. I’m anxious to see Jack Syme, and get the 
business out of hand.” 

Nell made a strong effort to put aside her doubts entirely, and 
put but one question to him as they strolled up the steep gravel 
path. How does a man make enemies, Terence?” 

“ Nothing easier, dear, for a man who’s a doctor. Every patient 
is a potential enemy. Yon cure him, and all’s well ; you fail to do 
so as quickly as he thinks his due, and he grumbles; you fail alto- 
gether, and he hates you. Then he calls in another doctor, and 
Nature perhaps rights him of her own accord, while the other doc- 
tor gets the credit — and your carelessness and stupidity become that 
patient’s nearest and dearest grievance. Then you send in your bill, 
and the breach is complete.” 

“ Certainly people are more unjust and ungrateful than I imagined.” 

“ Worse in every way than you imagined, little one. Men don’t 
think of justice; but only of getting their money’s worth. As for 
gratitude, why, ’tis a pretty thing to read of in books.” 

Nell sighed, but made no effort to combat these views. But if 
Terence was thus laying down the law in a superior manner, as be- 
comes a man, she was meanwhile influencing him for good, as be- 
comes a woman. Save for the fear of displeasing her, it is proba- 
ble that his present good resolution would have gone the way of 
most of his others, passing' gently through procrastination to ob- 
livion. Not that Nell urged him by a single word to go straight to 
Jack Syme, but he knew she expected this, and he left her the mo- 
ment they entered the house. 

Finding his assistant in the surgery, he opened the question at 
once, explained that he had lately seen a good deal of Ezekiel, and 
from one thing and another had been led to suspect the existence 
of an aortic aneurism. 

Jack listened, shrugging his shoulders. He totally disbelieved in 
any ailment of Ezekiel’s other than hysteria. 

“The man’s a hysterical fool,” he exclaimed, as he had done 
many times before; the truth being that Jack was in some respects 
a fool himself, though of quite a different order. He had no im- 
agination, and a morbid, sensitive, intense man like poor Doidge 
was necessarily a closed book to him. Moreover, he had always 
looked upon Terence as too subtle and fanciful in his diagnoses, though 
capable often of making phenomenally good shots under difficult 
circumstances. 


2C2 


Later in the day, however, Syrne found the miller in a tolerably 
favorable mood, and in obedience to orders carried out the desired 
physical examination with such skill as he possessed. 

“ Have you seen Doidge ?” asked Terence, when his assistant re- 
turned. 

“Oh yes. I’ve seen him, and gone through all the usual hocus- 
pocus ; and I believe your aneurism to be a mare’s-nest.” 

“ Well, after all, perhaps you’re right,” said Terence. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


When the summer and early autumn had passed; when cricket 
was over and the crops had been gathered in; when the weary Brit- 
isii subaltern, exhausted by cricket, tennis, C. O.’s parades, whist, 
billiards, and other such labors incident to the military career, was 
beginning to think of rest and peace in the bosom of his family ; in 
a word, towards the end of October, the return of Captain Julius 
Rush, of the 20th Dragoon Guards, was being eagerly looked for at 
Bickington Park. 

The old squire was to have his son with him for two whole months 
this time, and was somewhat unhinged by the contemplation of such 
a prospect. Sleep became a thing of difficulty for him ; and, once 
the great day was fixed, time appeared to come to a stand-still. His 
mind began to run upon railway accidents; the condition of a cer- 
tain railway bridge about forty miles on the London side of Chil- 
lington, about which some doubtful rumors were afloat, became a 
matter for searching inquiry. But, though some days of nervous 
agitation had gone far towards making the happy climax seem im- 
possible, the down express did actually land Captain Julius, quite 
unharmed, upon the Chillington platform at the appointed hour. 
Whereupon Squire Rush seized upon his son, feeling younger by 
ten years than he had done an hour before, and enjoyed a most lux- 
urious drive, with the young summer-tide in his heart contradicting 
any gloomy impressions made by the fading autumn woods around 
him. 

“ Dear lad !” he exclaimed, “ I’m no better than an old woman about 
you. Do you know — But I really can’t confess to such folly.” 

But, encouraged by the captain’s smile, he did confess. 

“Do you know that I’ve been so fidgety about the rumored rot- 
tenness of that bridge that I had serious thoughts of offering to re- 
pair it at my own expense?” 

Julius laughed so that the mare shied and swerved. 

“ It’s a fact, dear lad ; I did actually contemplate such a thing !” 

The squire laughed as heartily as his son, and they went on chat- 
tering nonsense for some time like any brace of school-boys. 


264 


“ x\li !” said tlie old man, as they presently drove through the 
lodge gates, “ if you would but take a wife and retire, and come to 
live with me at Bickington, I should have nothing left to wish for.” 

“ What wife would welcome me home as you have done, my dear 
dad? Why, with my surly temper I should quarrel finally with any 
woman before the honey-moon was half over. No matrimony for 
me, thank yon ; I don’t want to be under the thumb of any mortal 
thing in petticoats. I’ve seen too many good fellows mangled by 
that same toothed - trap, matrimony, to care about putting my own 
foot into it.” 

“ Well, I’m glad Miss Kate can’t hear him,” muttered the squire, 
with a sigh. “ He’s just as stiff-necked as ever, I fear.” 

Julius found sweet peace reigning at the park, and the master of 
the house a changed person. Mr. Rush’s nerve power was fairly 
well restored ; he was capable now of speaking quite boldly to his 
servants — that is, in courageous moments. There was laxity in the 
house, no doubt, but the atmosphere of the place was now kindly 
and genial ; with an undercurrent of sympathy between master and 
men such as Julius was pleased to note. He had come down fully 
prepared to make a second earthquake in the establishment, but per- 
ceived before he had been an hour in the house that neither speech 
nor action would be called for this time. The bold .surgery of his 
last visit had wrought a complete cure; the general tone of Bicking- 
ton Park was now that of one of Cuyp’s pastorals. 

Although he hardly knew one flower from another, it was Julius 
Rush’s first duty on the occasion of every home-coming to make a 
tour of the conservatories with the squire on his arm, listening to 
such local news as the latter had to pour forth. The rite was duly 
performed to-day soon after his arrival, and much home-talk safely 
got through during the process. 

There was a good deal of local gossip to be dealt with this time. 
The old squire rambled from topic to topic with the ardor of one 
who eatches a sympathetic listener but once a year and makes 
the most of him when caught; but his talk to-day had a knack of 
coming round, after a multitude of side excursions, into one main 
channel. 

In truth, the whole district was now wagging its tongue, not about 
Simon Secretan, whose final departure from the country had seemed 
a fitting close to his marred career, but about his more interesting 
successor ; and Mr. Rush was hardly original enough to avoid being 
carried along in so powerful a stream. This central figure, upon 


266 


whom all eyes seemed to be focused, was not that of a special fa* 
vorite of Captain Rush’s, although he could not help admitting 
that the man’s story was curious and picturesque in its way. Only 
the other day this popular hero had been a penniless searcher after a 
small medical practice; now he was a master — at least, during his 
wife’s lifetime — of a fine old hall, and had the spending of an enor- 
mous income. For to such an elevation had Terence Clancy risen — 
the Terence whom we saw but a few months since on the brink of a 
miserable confession to his wife. 

The breeze of fortune which landed Terence upon this pinnacle 
of prosperity sent a thrill of excitement, rather than surprise, through 
the neighborhood. Mrs. French-Chichester had long since given 
up her own hopes in favor of Nell and Terence; and other shrewd 
eyes had seen this climax looming in the distance for some time. 
Even dull ones, judg^ing by the after-asseverations of their owners, 
must have had occasional glimpses of it. At any rate, there was 
little astonishment openly expressed, though a perfect buzz of ro- 
mantic interest and speculation arose from Chillington and went 
eddying through half the county. 

When, towards the end of a wet, depressing hay-harvest, the news 
of Sir Hamo Secretan’s death got spread abroad, a few days of de- 
lightful curiosity supervened ; but the period of pleasant suspense 
was brief. The general drift of the will, made and executed but a 
few days before the baronet’s death, soon became known. 

Sir Hamo might be said to cease to live, rather than to die, so 
placid and serene was his final departure. And during those last few 
peaceful days of his life there did arise in the old man’s breast a cer- 
tain yearning after his son Simon, who had disgraced him, had gone 
away out of the country, no one knew whither, had caused him 
bitter disappointment and pain ; but who in old days, despite his 
tiresome whims and fancies, had certainly loved his father. 

Troubled by this vague longing, and perhaps with some remem- 
brance of neglect on his own part. Sir Hamo did begin to speak of 
his son to Nell and Terence Clancy. The latter, pricked by remorse 
— which was often sharp with him, though seldom long-lived — now 
earnestly desired to establish Simon’s innocence in his father’s eyes 
before it should be too late ; but his lips were sealed by his own pre- 
vious assertions to Nell. It was impossible to go back upon those 
former statements now ; he had proposed to himself to become grad- 
ually converted to Simon’s innocence, but there was no time for 
such a process. It was bad to be a liar in his own eyes, absolutely 


266 


impossible to be one in hers. He had to keep lying on to the end, 
and was miserable enough under the task. 

On the morning of his death Sir Hamo, for the first time, put the 
downright question, “ Do you think my son ever did that thing of 
which he was publicly accused, or was it only insane pride that kept 
him silent?” 

Even now, at the eleventh hour, if only Nell had been absent, Ter- 
ence might have wrought himself up to the point of freeing Simon 
from the charge ; but Sir Hamo would scarcely let her out of his 
sight. The question was put in her presence, and with a pang of 
bitter self-loathing, Terence told the culminating lie of his life — the 
lie that had existed in his mind potentially ever since the treacher- 
ous thought of putting his own guilt upon Simon was first bred out 
of the fear of discovery. 

He tried to console himself afterwards with the reflection that the 
admission would have come too late to affect the question of Simon’s 
inheritance ; but the consolation was inadequate, for, for aught he 
knew to the contrary. Sir Hamo might have altered his will at once ; 
nor did the final scene take place for some .hours afterwards. It was 
not until late in the afternoon that Sir Hamo, reclining in his in- 
valid chair upon the terrace, sent a last feeble gaze over the beloved 
woods of Hollacomb, where his heart still lingered, and sank with a 
quiet sigh into his last sleep. 

Very soon the discovery that his wife had inherited the bulk of 
Sir Hamo’s property, and was actually standing in Simon’s shoes, 
came upon Terence with a shock that half stunned him. At first he 
was only stupefied with astonishment, then remorseful and ecstati- 
cally happy by turns. He had never imagined that Sir Hamo would 
thus put his son entirely aside, and his remorse at the unlooked-for 
catastrophe was poignant. On the other hand, he had never imag- 
ined that he should one day, without a single conscious effort to 
that end, find himself the wielder of a vast income. 

But the wondrous intoxication of possession soon ousted all other 
feelings. He was almost beside himself — ceased for a time to be- 
lieve in his own identity. The glamour of wealth and power worked 
in his veins like an elixir. In old days his highest flights of fancy 
had never touched the mountain peak upon which he now actually 
stood. He seemed to have been transported to paradise, while the 
clang of the gates behind him rang the knell of all past trouble and 
pain and harassment. 

As he grew cooler, sophistical arguments came thick and fast at 


267 


his bidding ; a brief for his defence was built up with a facility 
surprising even to himself. He had never stirred a finger to bring 
about Simon’s disinheritance, had never conceived the thing possible. 
Simon had done it himself. Years of proud aloofness, of obstinate 
silence when soft speech was needed, of frequent irritation of his 
father’s prejudices, had made this result inevitable. The public in- 
dictment of Simon was but an incident in the long quarrel of a life- 
time. Nor was Simon left destitute, or even poor, in his exile ; his 
property of Hollacomb would always bring him in a good income. 
Again, if it were possible, he, Terence, would be relieved to let Nell 
hand over to Simon a handsome proportion of what he might have 
looked upon as his due ; but it soon became apparent that nothing 
of the sort could be done. It was found that Nell could not touch 
the bulk of the property during her lifetime; and should she desire 
to ease her mind by devising it to Simon at her death, Terence 
would never dream of dissuading her. 

With these and countless other arguments did Terence crowd the 
imaginary foolscap of his brief ; then, having demolished in the 
process every possible counterclaim that his conscience might elabo- 
rate, he mentally revised the whole and put it aside for the present, 
while he plunged anew into the surge of happiness which Fate had 
rolled to his feet. 

Upon this topic of the new prince of Monks Damerel, his social 
successes, his lavish generosity, his phenomenal popularity. Squire 
Rush was still expatiating when he and Julius sat down to luncheon. 
Indeed, the dragoon had already heard so much about the hero of 
the hour that, “ not to die a listener,” he compromised the question 
by agreeing to drive his father over to Chillington in the course of 
the afternoon, and hear Terence Clancy speak for himself. For the 
affairs of the cricket season were to be wound up at a general meet- 
ing of the club at three o’clock, when its new captain - president. 
Squire Clancy, as the principal speaker and great star of the occa- 
sion, could be studied in all his new glory. 

^Satisfied with this compromise, Mr. Rush was soon inditing of a 
more interesting matter — that is, his improved relations with Miss 
Tredethlyn. The friendly feeling between her and himself had 
maintained itself during the summer ; had even increased a little, 
though of his ancient fear there still lingered enough to make the 
road to Moor Gates a somewhat steep one. In fact, it usually took 
the old squire, though he made no confession to that effect, from 
ten days to a fortnight to screw himself up to the point of achieving 


268 


a call upon the Tredethlyns. It appeared that he owed Mr. Tredeth- 
lyn a call now, and, with his son’s support, would like to pay it soon. 
Would Julius come with him in a day or two? 

An absence of some months, however, had not softened the stub- 
born Julius. He listened calmly, asked no questions, committed 
himself to nothing, whereat the squire’s disappointment was suffi- 
ciently patent. His long-cherished desire to have his grandchildren 
playing about bis knee seemed as far as ever from fulfilment; for he 
was well assured that Julius, if he did not marry Kate, would inevi- 
tably die a bachelor. Yet Mr. Rush had not by any means fired his 
last shot. Under pressure of failure this simple old man was grow- 
ing cunning. 

“You’ve heard nothing of Captain Saunderson and his wife, I 
suppose ?” he presently asked, in a casual voice. 

“ No — nothing at all.” 

“ I verily believe,” the squire continued, with an innocent-sound- 
ing laugh, “that were the humbly-born aunt living in our neigh- 
borhood, the homelier presence would solace your pride even to the 
point of making you civil to Miss Kate. Mrs. Saunderson’s ‘ com- 
monness ’ and ‘ vulgarity,’ which I heard so much about at the 
vicarage that afternoon, would be a constant balm to your might- 
iness. Wouldn’t they, now ?” 

Julius was taken aback by this shrewd probing of his weakness. 
He said nothing — would not permit himself to smile — but there was 
a gleam in his eye that the simple, cunning father noted and treas- 
ured up. And so acute a schemer was his son’s frowardness mak- 
ing of the old gentleman that he said not a word more at present, 
but changed the subject with a certain triumphant subtlety. 

When, at the hour appointed for the cricket meeting, they drew 
up before the entrance of the old town-hall, Julius was able to real- 
ize by ocular evidence what a good deal of talk had put before 
him in but a hazy fashion — to wit, the remarkable pitch of popu- 
larity to which Terence Clancy had attained. 

Under the arches of the hall and about the gravel space which lay 
between the ancient building and the road a large crowd was gath- 
ered ; and when a smart tandem -cart came flashing over the town 
bridge, there arose a murmur that presently swelled into a downright 
cheer. The young prince received an ovation and evidently reveiled 
in it. 

In truth, popularity was as the breath of life to Terence Clancy. 
He possessed the natural kindliness which seeks public approval, and 


269 


was free from the arrogance that withers it. Moreover, his character, 
at least in regard to the qualities which make for heart-winning, was 
of a kind to bloom and expand under the sun of prosperity. His 
simple vanity took no harm from a little kindly applause. As they 
cheered him now his delicate skin flushed like a rose, his eyes 
sparkled with pleasure, his smile was bright and happy as summer 
waves sun-smitten. Old men upon whom that smile fell thought of 
their boyhood ; young men who caught it hoped their sweethearts 
might be looking another way. 

“There, now — did I exaggerate?” cried Mr. Rush, triumphantly. 
“You see for yourself how he takes hold of people and charms 
them. Isn’t he a brilliant, handsome, dashing young fellow, now ?” 

But Julius vouchsafed his father nothing but a sardonic murmur. 
It vexed him to And this usurper of Simon’s throne wielding the 
sceptre with such triumphant success. How much did the man 
really care for the public which revered him in this fulsome way ? 
When had Simon, who for years had lavished heart and money upon 
this people, ever been cheered in the public street? Who missed 
him now, or cared whether he were alive or dead ? In short, the 
soldier’s naturally gloomy view of human nature was heightened by 
this incident ; and, as a man who had always succeeded better in 
winning respect than love, he*was perhaps somewhat jealous on his 
own account as well as Simon’s. He certainly entered the hall and 
took a seat beside his father with a growing resentment against the 
general enthusiasm of the gathering. 

Some one in the gallery watched Captain Rush’s passage across 
the room, and, noting the dark mood of his countenance, felt de- 
pressed and disappointed. She was conscious of being perfectly 
dressed and of looking really handsome; for Mrs. French-Chichester 
— whose old friendship for Terence had lately returned in full force, 
and who never let slip a chance of being agreeable to Nell and Kate 
nowadays — had paid her one or two charming compliments. But 
of what avail to be admittedly worth looking at when people won’t 
throw a glance your way, or give you a chance of bowing to them ? 

However, Kate had a sharp pair of eyes at her side, and could not 
afford to parade her mortiflcation. She would not even permit her- 
self the solace of cynical remarks in general, but talked so charita- 
bly of various people in the throng below that Mrs. French-Chiches- 
ter secretly voted her a bore, and suppressed her yawns with dif- 
ficulty. 

Mr. Tredethlyn, as chairman of the meeting, presently opened the 


270 


proceedings with his old, pleasant, genial commonplaces, while Kate, 
listening to her father with an enthusiasm somewhat abated by hab- 
it, was irresistibly reminded of that stormy first assembly of the 
club, when Simon was so bitterly outraged. From which it appears 
that Julius Rush was not the only person whose thoughts wandered 
away regretfully to the exile. 

After the chairman’s opening speech, two or three of the most 
determined bores in the place addressed the hall in succession, de- 
pressing the spirits of the assembly with much success. Indeed, 
five-and -twenty minutes of such eloquence seemed to charge the 
very atmosphere of the room with droning stock phrases, such as 
“continued prosperity,” “creditable exhibition of cricketing talent,” 
and the like. 

Mrs. French-Chichester, after muttering “ I didn’t know this was 
to be a prayer-meeting,” fell into a gentle doze at this stage of the 
proceedings, leaving Kate free at least to direct her eyes whither she 
pleased. 

When the sufferings of the assembly, however, had reached to 
about the furthest limit of human endurance, the last of those hon- 
est citizens, whose vanity so unfortunately fiew to the tongue, showed 
signs of exhaustion, and proceeded tq^wind up his speech by a eulo- 
gium upon the most active, most popular, most enterprising member 
of the club — to wit, its captain - president, Mr. Terence Clancy of 
Monks Damerel Hall. 

Whereupon the audience awoke suddenly, as though under a 
sprinkle of fresh water, and a cheery rapping of sticks began. The 
eulogy took a little time to get bodied forth, and contained long 
words enough to make a plain man dizzy ; but at length they fiailed 
it to death with gladsome “ Hear hears !” and so won the breathing 
space long craved. 

They were in a mood now for something bright and jestful — and 
they got it. 

Terence was in splendid trim, and so bubbled with wit and droll- 
ery that the room was soon full of volleying laughter, which re- 
newed itself almost with his every sentence. 

Out of the considerable throng of profiles that came within Kate’s 
field of vision, all save one were twitching and wrinkling with 
spasms of mirth; that one looked indifferent, if not critical, and 
presently took an expression even less in key with the general feel- 
ing of the audience. 

The speaker had been describing with much point and sly hum^v 


271 


how the great bowler, Dick Yelverton, had missed an easy catch, 
and in doing so had received the cricket-ball full in his right eye, 
towards the end of the last match of the season ; and he rounded 
off these remarks with a quotation not a bit too trite for his au- 
dience. 

“ Dick wasn’t pretty to look at, if you remember,” he said, with 
a sly chuckle, “and, faith, there’s a beautiful halo of autumn tints 
round his eye yet. Look at him, you whose wickets he has scattered 
so often and so unkindly ! Ah, but Dick’s our prince of bowlers 
still, despite that wicked piece of leather; for what says the poet? — 

“ ‘ You may break, you may shatter the vase, as you will. 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.’” 

Now, what could there be in this well-worn couplet, Kate asked 
herself, to impress Captain Rush so curiously ? 

At first Rush could not tell himself, but the words did startle him 
unaccountably. It was as though he had heard a sudden shout while 
walking in a desert place. Kate watched his face grow puzzled, then 
still more intent, then absent -looking, then completely mystified; 
lastly, full of vague darkness and suspicion. She knew that Captain 
Rush had never subscribed to the popular verdict in Terence’s favor, 
had, indeed, always spoken of him with frank dislike ; but Terence 
had spoken brightly and genially enough, without a hint of arrogance 
or self-importance. Surely there was not a word in his harangue 
even for an enemy to grow sullen about ! 

The captain’s speech concluded the proceedings, and the crowd 
proceeded to jostle itself, in excellent spirits, down the steps and out 
onto the gravel; Terence himself driving off, flushed and radiant, 
with cheers and good wishes still ringing in his ears. 

Upon descending from the gallery Kate was greeted by the man 
whose profile she had been studying with so much artistic interest, 
but who had not thrown a single glance her way during the proceed- 
ings. His manner was distant and formal, his words few ; but he 
did speak, and did hand her into her pony - carriage. Perhaps he 
found it necessary to give himself this little treat as a reward for 
previous resolute conduct. 

Yet, though his speech was calm enough, Kate thought Captain 
Rush must be putting some constraint upon himself. He looked 
uneasy and excited, and — though she made the admission to herself 
with some mortification — somewhat absent-minded. 

She gathered up her reins and rpad^ ^ show of starting, but he 


272 


still remained in a conversational attitude; though, his stock of con- 
ventional remarks being apparently exhausted, he might have been 
expected to say good-bye with alacrity. 

“ I shall make the baldest remark I can possibly think of, then 
he’ll be glad to get rid of me,” muttered Kate. “ What did you 
think of the speeches this afternoon. Captain Rush ?” 

“ Oh, capital ! Yes, the air is pleasantly cool, and you’ll have a 
pleasant drive home. I beg your pardon,” he added, apologetically, 
“ but I didn’t quite catch your question. Would you mind driving 
on a few yards out of the way of the people ? I want to speak to 
you about the detective and his verdict.” 

“ Pray tell me all about it,” said Kate, anxiously, as soon as they 
had passed out of hearing of the crowd. Captain Rush was walking 
beside the pony-carriage, his face still wearing the look of puzzled 
disquiet which she had noticed some time since. 

“Well, to tell the plain truth” — he smiled slightly as he made 
this confession — “ the man was a complete failure.” 

“ Ah ! you should have taken my advice, and gone at once to Mr. 
Doidge.” 

“ That is precisely what I did.” 

“Yes, yes. Had he no clew to give you?” 

“ The poor crazy fellow knows no more than we do, and will never 
make any discovery worth thinking about. He agreed to work 
away during my absence, but I don’t for a moment suppose that 
he’ll ever penetrate the mystery.” 

“Are you equally hopeless of success yourself? I do hope you 
won’t give the thing up in despair?” 

“ I never give things up,” he said, curtly. 

“I’m glad to think there’ll be one friend still working for poor 
old Simon. Are you still groping quite blindly? Is there no ray 
of light from any direction ?” 

“ Nothing worth calling a ray, perhaps ” — he paused some mo- 
ments before giving this reply — “yet within the last twenty-four 
hours a kind of glimmer has come. I can’t tell you more than that, 
and perhaps I’m mistaken in calling it even a glimmer. Suspicion 
is a reckless leaper, and mere personal prejudice may give it a fillip 
in any direction. Moreover, even supposing — what at present I have 
no right whatever to suppose — but the fact is. I’m in a state of be- 
wilderment to-night, and maundering on in a way which can only 
puzzle and vex you — and the best thing I can do will be to say good- 
night at once,” 


273 


Certainly Kate was not a little bewildered by his words and man- 
ner, while at the same time comforted at finding him willing to offer 
her such a modicum of attention as he had permitted himself. When 
she drove off into the darkness it was with a tingling consciousness 
that their hands had met for a moment, and that even a fraction of 
a second may contain something worth carrying away — and perhaps 
thinking about all the way home. 

18 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


“ How’d ye like to see me a member of Parliament, Nellie ma- 
voiirneen ?” 

Nell smiled at her husband somewhat doubtfully, having learned 
to associate a relapse into his native brogue with some attempt or 
other to wheedle away her better judgment. 

“ I think you’d be a chameleon of a politician, Terence ; a Liberal 
one day — ” 

“ Deuce a bit, Nell !!’ he cut in with a deep twinkle in his eye, 
“for, odds weathercocks! (as Bob Acres might say) I’ll be a hot 
Tory before this week’s out, and keep so for the remainder of me 
natural life. I’ve contracted Toryism like a virulent disease, and, 
faith, I can’t afford to take any curative medicine !” 

“ Why, only yesterday you told me you were a Liberal, Terence ?” 

“An’ so I was, me dear, until 9 p.m. or thereabouts, but the 
Tory poison worked its way into me system after dinner last night. 
Bridistow and Pigott inoculated me, with Mrs. French-Chich ester to 
help ’urn, and I’m not likely to take a turn for the better this side 
of the Millennium — unless they happen to treat me to cold shoulder. 
I’ll explain further, little girl, so keep your pretty ears open. Up 
till a month ago I was a Fenian, because, being free from any taint 
of political ambition, I could afford to think straight ; then a woman 
tempted me — that is to say, Mrs. French-Chichester conceived for 
me the notion of a parliamentary career — and I fell away into Lib- 
eralism. Now, however, it seems that the Tory system of humbug 
is likely to land me in the House of Commons more readily than the 
other, so a Tory I am already, of the grand old full-bodied fruity 
sort ; none stancher to be found in all broad England, none truer to 
our grand old institutions, our Church, our Sovereign, our caste prej- 
udice, our innate stupidity, and the other time-honored and colossal 
things that go to make us English gentlemen what we are ! Such 
noble sentiments have I imbibed, little Nell, in the course of but a 
few hours; or, to put it another way, such is the first hand dealt me, 
and which I’m bound to play, do you see ?” 

“ Not in the least at present.” 


215 


“ Well, then, I’ll compress the whole question into a nutshell for 
you. The Liberal member for this division of the county is an old 
crock, who will not stand again at the next general election ; thus, 
when a certain penniless Irish adventurer became the other day a 
person of importance, the Liberals of this neighborhood began to 
view him as a possible successor to the ancient crock aforesaid. 
They made wary but definite advances to the adventurer-personage, 
and found him both intelligent and sympathetic, insomuch that he 
promised to develop into a thorough-going people’s man in due time. 
So far, so good ; but now for the cross-current which has drawn this 
open-hearted young fellow into another channel. 

“ Our Tory member is young, but a brainless fool — you see I take 
this last opportunity of speaking quite candidly before undertaking 
the yoke of a professional politician ; do not fear that blunt and 
hardy truthfulness will ever distinguish (and condemn) me hereafter 
— I say, frankly, he’s a brainless fool, and my countrymen in the 
House (more power to ’um !) smother him with ridicule before ever 
the foolish tongue can wag off a brace of sentences. Wherefore his 
good friends down here are sick of the long-eared representative, 
and live in hopes of getting him to resign long before the next gen- 
eral election. Now do you see how the land lies? The Irish ad- 
venturer has been playing off one party against the other, but will 
one day this week, in all probability, commit himself to the greater 
dullards, as being the more efficient props. As he only lives on his 
wife’s charity, his exalted position needs an artificial buttress here 
and there, d’ye see ? He can’t afford to do without the wealthy big- 
wig, Sir Raby Pigott, his serene and intellectual highness, Lord 
Bridistow, and the other landed geniuses of the district. In fact, 
my dear Nell, the long and short of it is that, to-morrow being mar- 
ket-day, I am to meet Bridistow in the town about noon for further 
political discussion, and shall probably bring him here to lunch, 
finally yielding to his blandishments, after due modest assertion of 
my own unworthiness, about four o’clock in the afternoon.” 

“ But, Terence, surely common honesty — ” 

“ I don’t care the fiick of a whip for that, bless your simplicity. 
I tell you I’m going to be a leading man, to have ray fling among 
these English fools — whom at bottom I hate with all ray soul! I 
started life as a pauper, sprung from a long line of paupers ground 
down by English tyranny, and now, by the Lord, I’ll have my fling! 
I’ve purchased popularity by a little blarney — bedad, you should 
have heard the fools cheer me at the cricket meeting yesterday ! — 


276 


and now am going to purchase a high place by adding thereto your 
money, so ye’d best make up your mind to the situation, little 
woman.” 

It will be seen that prosperity had exhilarated Terence, and em- 
phasized some of his qualities in a peculiar fashion. This audacious 
method of handling his wife was the one he commonly used now, 
for he found that by persistent self-confidence and assertion he could 
bluff her into almost anything. In truth, Terence had learned the 
secret of how to get his own way from no less able an instructress 
than Mrs. French-Chichester, who had been of great service to the 
young master of Monks Daraerel lately, and had taken up the ques- 
tion of his parliamentary career with great enthusiasm ; indeed, but 
for her, Terence might never have turned his thoughts to public life. 
She was ambitious for him, determined to make him a leading man 
in the county, and full of a hundred schemes for pushing him up to 
the highest rungs of the social ladder. Nor would she have asked a 
pleasanter task than the training and handling of so promising a can 
didate for popular favor. She it was who taught him the value of 
social trifles, the importance of ingratiating himself not only with the 
best people, but with all persons, high and low ; who fed him full with 
the strong meat of worldly ambition, and saw that his moral con- 
sciousness should not be unduly worked upon by his wife. In truth, 
but for her support and wise counsel, it is probable that Nell would 
hardly have been brought so soon into her present Condition of 
wholesome submission, for the sprightly widow had from the first 
laid herself out to preserve Terence from the ignominy of being hen- 
pecked. She would carry him off triumphantly from under Nell’s 
very nose, and persuade him that his wife was flatly unsympathetic, 
undutifnlly cold in all matters relating to the only question worth 
thinking about — his future high career. She sneered Nell down as 
good-humoredly and as effectually as she had formerly done her cousin 
Simon ; for if this active woman was romantically prone to bring 
likely young people together, she was not less skilled at gently draw- 
ing them asunder afterwards. 

Having delivered himself of the above frank statement of his 
political views and intentions, Terence turned, whistling cheerfully, 
to look at a modern sea-piece placed upon an easel near which Nell 
was seated. She watched him furtively as he followed the lines of 
the composition with his finger and criticised, with muttered excla- 
mations of satisfaction, the delicate opal tints of the sky horizon. 
The general appearance of the room, lately Sir Hamo Secretan’s 


277 


study, suggested that the new master of the Hall had already made 
a pretty fair beginning of the joyous pastime which he called “ hav- 
ing his fling.” The chamber was now a perfect gallery of modern 
French and English pictures, evidently chosen by one who had no 
taste for mediocrity ; the new furniture was the richest obtainable ; 
the table was covered with costly knick-knacks, while a goodly pile 
of unopened tradesmen’s bills, the crop of a single post-delivery, occu- 
pied one corner. In truth, the quiet old Hall seemed not merely to 
have awakened from a long sleep, but to have been hailed upon by 
a goodly shower of gold. A bevy of smart London servants had 
replaced the innocent dove-cot of Mrs. Henley, who had retired to 
a fashionable watering-place with a view to setting up as a gentle- 
woman at large. Terence already possessed an excellent stud, and a 
little army of grooms and helpers; also a hundred-ton cutter at 
Lymport, and many other appurtenances necessary to a man of his 
wealth. It was not his policy to hide his light under a bushel, but 
rather to let it flare, bonfire -fashion, across the breadth of the 
county. Nor was he troubled with any paltry misgivings as to ex- 
pense. Whenever his agent — the very man who had first caused the 
tin-mine to shed pure gold into Sir Hamo’s pockets — waited upon 
the new squire, Terence would exclaim, with his genial laugh : 

“Oh, damn the business, Treluddra — go to Mrs. Clancy about 
everything; the property’s hers, and, faith, she must take the 
bother with it I” 

“ Do you see the curl of foam on this breaking wave, Nell ?” he 
now said, after a pause. “ It is done with one stroke of the palette- 
knife, but a lifetime of labor and study have gone to make that one 
stroke possible. Now the real art of life is to clutch the success 
without the labor. I’m going to do just such a perfect stroke to- 
morrow, and the only toil that has gone to produce it has been that 
of winning the sweetest wife in England. Ah, ’tis her presence that 
has kept all but landscapes and seascapes from these walls, for no 
painted head’s worth looking at beside the ‘ ripe and real ’ beauty 
that I have always before me !” 

Nell accepted this sweetmeat with a dutiful smile, suppressing the 
sigh that would have come more glibly. She was glad that he had 
rattled on without giving her much chance of replying, for her old 
influence over Terence had dwindled to the point where judicious 
silence has to take the place of conscientious objection. 

We know how, on the last occasion of our seeing them together, 
she had resolutely set herself to accept her husband as he was ; to 


278 


love and, if possible, respect him, limitations and all. To that 
course of conduct she had clung with stubborn fidelity, and none 
would ever know how much it cost her. The trial had begun at 
once, for the most earnest endeavor to accept his explanation had 
proved futile. It was plain to her, as soon as coolness returned, 
that he had some dark secret on his mind, that he had glided from 
the very brink of confession by one of those slippery turns which 
seemed to come to him so easily. Well, she would never pry into 
that, never allude to it again; and certainly the trouble, whatever it 
might be, had been driven clean out of his mind when the rise of 
fortune came, unless his constant desire for fresh excitement be in- 
terpreted as — But no; Nell would have nothing to do with interpre- 
tations and surmises. Perhaps she felt that the less she knew the 
better her chance of happiness. 

Howbeit, from that time Terence had begun as it were to slip 
from her grasp. He openly resented her scruples as to stepping 
into Simon’s shoes, and could never endure even to have Simon’s 
name mentioned. He plunged into all social dissipations that lay 
open to him with a kind of feverish energy, and threw money about 
in a lavish way which frightened his quiet-going wife ; nor did he seem 
to care much about pleasing her or retaining her respect, sustained 
as he now was by the intoxicating applause of a large neighbor- 
hood. But still Nell persisted in making every allowance fod’ him, 
^ in manufacturing excuses for every fresh whim and vagary of her 
husband. In truth, she was like a friendly woman-critic standing be- 
fore the canvas of one who is dear to her, striving to find here and 
there a brush -mark of genius in a broad .spread of flat mediocrity. 

“Well, good-bye, little woman,” said Terence, at length; when his 
wife had remained silent for some minutes; “ apparently. I’m not 
destined to elicit any sympathy from you, so I may as well be off. 
You can’t enter into a man’s ambition at all, I suppose. Sorry I 
can’t fall in with your views either, which I presume would tend to 
the parcelling out of the property into cabbage-gardens for the poor, 
or building- sites for almshouses. Sorry I can’t ride a beastly tri- 
cycle instead of a thorough - bred horse, or drive you to market of a 
Thursday in a donkey-cart. Sorry I’m not a goody-goody country 
curate, with a taste for distributing flannels and fawning on old 
women. However, I’ve a notion that ’twould be all the same. Were 
I the Angel Gabriel, you’d be only half satisfied with me ; certainly 
nothing composed of mere flesh and blood can ever pretend to come 
up to your standard.” 


279 


“ You insult me — you insult me !” cried Nell, with quivering lips. 

It was the first time Nell had ever “flown out” at him, as the 
homely phrase has it ; and the man’s natural kindliness was at once 
awakened. 

“There, there, little girl. I know my tone was abominable, and 
my words nearly as bad. Forgive me, Nellie !” 

“ Oh, Terence, I never shall be happy in this miserable place. I 
feel that it doesn’t rightly belong to me, that we are flinging away 
money which is not our own. Our position seems to me altogether 
false and hollow, and honesty seems to have become an impossibility. 
Why must we always be scheming to better ourselves, and straining 
after fresh social successes? Why must you go against your con- 
science and pretend to hold political views which you really hate? 
How much happiness do we get from all this false striving? I wish 
— ah, how I wish ! — we were back in our old life, honestly trying to 
make both ends meet, and to save a little, and caring for nothing 
beyond !” 

“ What mawkish nonsense !” cried Terence, impatiently. “ Was 
ever a man so worried and bothered just for trying to do his best 
and get on in the world ? I let you take your own course, and 
mope at home when we ought to be furthering my chances in so- 
ciety. I never harass you or put the least pressure on you — and 
yet you’re never contented for an hour.” 

“Because I don’t feel honesty Terence; and the more I think of 
our position the less satisfied I feel about it. I can’t see that we 
have any right to be standing in Simon’s shoes — ” 

“ Look here, Nell,” he interposed, angrily ; “ I wish you’d under- 
stand once for all that I will not hear a word more about that man. 
You drive me half crazy with continual harping on that string. 
You’ve taught me to hate the man so that I wish he were dead ! 
How could I prevent his disinheritance? How could I reconcile 
him with his father, when they had been pulling two ways all their 
lives? I have enough to bear in the knowledge that you respect 
and revere the man as you’ve never respected me, without having 
the loss of his property thrust in my face like this 1” 

“Yes, I do respect him,” said Nell, firmly; “for it has come to 
me — I know not how — that he was never guilty of that wickedness. 
It was not in Simon’s nature to do such a thing, and I ought never 
to have believed in his guilt.” 

“ What do you mean ?” cried Terence, who was now white with 
anger. 


280 


“Just what I say — that Simon had nothing to do with poor 
Mary’s trouble.” 

“ What are you driving at ? Whom do you suspect ?” 

“ Why are you so fierce and strange, Terence ? I suspect no one. 
I only long for the real culprit to be found and the innocent man 
righted. Ah, if I only had it in my power to punish the man who 
has ruined poor Simon — ” 

“ You wouldn’t spare him, I suppose ?” 

“After what he has done for Simon, I should be merciless towards 
him !” 

“ God help him, if you do catch him ! He had better have 
drowned himself at once than have injured your hero!” 

“ Well, well,” said Nell, with a heavy sigh, “ I ought not to have 
introduced a subject that pains you so much, Terence. I know I 
have done wrong, but you sha’n’t be troubled about this any more. 
Tell me further about your political views, for I am sure you were 
joking with me in pretending to be so hypocritical ?” 

“ I’ve neither views, nor hope, nor ambition,” he muttered. “ I’m 
a poor, miserable devil, always straining after happiness and never 
reaching it ! I wish, with you, that we had never left our old life 
— or rather that we had gone abroad, and started a new one, and left 
this cursed country forever !” 

Accustomed though she was to Terence’s sudden changes of 
mood, Nell was amazed at this one. He had plunged from hot 
wrath into flat depression with a speed which almost took her breath 
away. 

“I have- vexed and worried you, dear,” she said, penitently. 
“And I do believe my views are very narrow and peculiar. Nor 
have I any right to expect you to think with me in everything. Let 
us talk of something happy and pleasant now, such as our plans for 
next summer. Are you really going to take me for that yachting 
cruise to Scotland?” 

But Terence’s >fit of despondency was not to be shaken off so 
easily. 

“ Life’s a poor thing, Nell,” he groaned, “ brimful of shams and 
frauds and irony. And our insane pursuit of happiness is the most 
pitiful thing under the sun. Can you name a single living soul who 
is happy ? 

“ ‘ Happy thou art not : 

For what thou hast not still thou striv’st to get. 

And what thou hast forgett’st.’ 


‘281 


Do you know that speech of the duke’s in “Measure for Measure?” 
I know every line of it, and every line’s as true as it is pathetic. 

‘“If thou art rich, thou art poor; 

For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 

Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey, 

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none.’ 

Most true, Nell — most true ! Friend I hav^e none. They call me 
the most popular man in the county ; but there’s not a living soul 
that cares for me but you — and even you would fall off if you knew 
me through and through. I wonder, could any man afford to be 
known through and through ? If there be such a man. I’ll admit 
that he’s happy. I’d rather be like such a one than be a crowned 
king, though maybe the possession of an absolutely clear conscience 
would be a happiness insupportable by a poor devil like me ! Man’s 
nothing but a doomed creature, struggling over ground honey- 
combed with pitfalls, into one or other of which he must fall sooner 
or later ; then the devil throws a net over him, and he never fronts 
the clear sky more. Look, Nell — look where I’m pointing ! Do 
you see how the sunlight falls on that field by the edge of the wood 
yonder? and do you see that stooping figure on the grass? That’s 
the figure of a man, and he’s snaring larks. He has a net set 
upright and the cord in his hand, and grain spread close to the net. 
Watch him now ! See, he jerks the cord, and the net falls, and the 
hulking brute darts forward, doubtless to clutch the little fluttering 
victim. Next he’ll put it into a cage, six inches by four, to yearn 
away its life henceforth in some dismal alley. It will never more 
feel the glorious sweep of the spring breeze, nor the warm kiss of 
the June sunshine, but just long and pine and yearn away its heart 
till it breaks. Now, a man, once entrapped in one of those pitfalls 
I mentioned, is no better than a caged lark, with no more hope of 
liberty, no more chance of escape. Do ye think I exaggerate? Ah, 
Nellie mavourneen, ye don’t know what a hell of suffering comes 
with a sick conscience ! Listen, now ! I’d like to slash off three 
years of me life with a single knife-stroke ; then I’d like to meet ye 
again, a free girl, who had never looked twice at another man, to 
woo and wed ye fair and straight, and carry ye off to some lonely 
home in the depths of some far-off country, where are no pitfalls for 
erring men, and there let ye train me up, and dower me with some 
of your own goodness, and teach me how to live with a conscience 
pure and crystal clear as your own ! Ah, Nell, Nell, if I could only 


282 


start fair again — start fair and straight from the beginning, with 
you to help me — I might win something better than the sham hap- 
piness that’s me lot now !” 

He ended with a sob and a broken exclamation, and Nell could 
only weep with him and pray for him and try in vain to comfort 
him. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


The puzzled frame of mind into which the meeting at the town- 
hall had thrown Captain Rush remained with him throughout the 
night ; and the next morning, about the hour when the scene de- 
scribed in the last chapter was enacting, he found himself walking 
into Chillington, still engaged in argument, analysis, speculation, 
and such-like mental exercises. He was naturally a man of action 
rather than of thought ; but now, for once in a way, had arrived at the 
point of being unable to decide upon what course to take at a given 
juncture. 

How to verify, or else to clear his mind of, a vague suspicion 
which at present seemed merely to be floating in his senses, and un- 
able to And a deflnite anchorage ; which, in fact, was rather a quick- 
ening of speculation in a given direction than a formulated suspicion. 
That was the main condition of the problem still demanding a solu- 
tion. At present he had but a gossamer thread of evidence to go 
upon ; and, as a fair-minded man, conscious of a strong bias against 
the suspected person, he feared to be precipitate. On the other hand, 
he could not be easy in his mind without making some effort tow- 
ards obtaining the needed verification. 

Julius Rush was long upon the road this morning; yet, by the 
time he reached the town, his spell of solitary thinking did not ap- 
pear to have had the desired issue. He strolled on to the town bridge 
with the aspect of a man who had still failed to make up his mind 
upon some knotty question. After a brief halt on the bridge, how- 
ever, he bent his steps up-stream, muttering: “Yes, I’ll see Doidge 
again ; there’ll be no harm done if I’m reasonably cautious.” 

He went by the road that Terence had followed with so much fear 
and hesitation on a former occasion ; and upon reaching the mill- 
yard was struck, as Terence had been, with its busy and prosperous 
aspect. But Rush made no pause for a gossip with the foreman ; he 
promptly strode up to the door, looking neither to right nor left, and 
knocked vigorously. 

When Julius was shown into the parlor, the appearance of poor 
Doidge, the owner of this flourishing business, was certainly not cal* 


284 


culated to cheer a man endowed with some of the melancholy of his 
period. The miller lay upon a sofa, looking worn and haggard, and 
altogether changed for the worse since Julius Rush’s last visit. The 
glance which used to wander so proudly from this window over the 
broad meadows had lost its fire and arrogance. When he spoke his 
greetings, the voice that had laid down the law to all Chillington, had 
made clerks and foremen and tenants tremble in their shoes, was now 
languid and toneless ; but perhaps the most pathetic thing of all about 
the man was his meekness. 

His visitor was really shocked at finding Ezekiel’s natural self-im- 
portance thus watered down by sickness, and the more so when he 
noted the hollow cheek and other physical symptoms of decay. But, 
as a member of the superior sex. Captain Rush’s sympathies were, as 
a matter of course, kept under good control. He quickly proceeded 
to business. 

“ Any news, Mr. Doidge ? You agreed to work away in my ab- 
sence, but I fear bad health must have tied you down a good deal.” 

Doidge smiled strangely. 

“ Not altogether, mister.” 

“ What ! have you chanced upon any clew ?” 

“ Not exactly chanced neither. Happen I’ve labored and delved 
my way to somethin’ o’ the sort.” 

“ What is it ? Out with your clew if you have one !” 

“ Don’t you be startin’ off that way, captain, or you’ll be smashin’ 
a shaft presently. Hows’ever, I’ll tell you this much — that I shall yet 
lay my bands on he before I’m carried out of this mill feet first. But 
now, let us have your news, for your eye tells me you’ve got some.” 

“ No, I’ve nothing much to say ; in fact, my suspicions, such as 
they are, seem too vague to be worth mentioning at present.” 

Doidge’s wan smile broke out again. 

“ Still afeared of my violence ?” he muttered. 

“ No, for I’m perfectly capable of restraining that. What I do 
fear is the possible wronging of an innocent man, because I happen 
to dislike him heartily, and the giving of deep pain and mortification 
to several other people besides — ” 

“ To some of your own friends, in fact ?” asked the other, with a 
sudden penetrating glance. 

“ I never said so !” retorted Julius, angrily ; “ and I’ll trouble you 
not -to jump at unauthorized conclusions. Surely you must under- 
stand that I don’t care to raise a confounded scandal with nothing 
but a piece of random guesswork to hinge it upon ?” 


286 


“ I understand, sir,” said the miller, dryly, adding under his breath, 
“ Mayhap I understand rather more than you’m aware of, mister.” 

“ May I have another look at that volume of poems from among 
your relics, Doidge ?” 

“ Surely you may, sir. Maybe you’ll lift the box — ’tis yonder, in 
the lower drawer o’ the cupboard — for yourself?” 

Julius did so, and opened the box with a key which the miller 
now handed to him. Doidge watched him amusedly, rather than in- 
tently, as he rapidly turned the leaves from one marked passage to 
another. 

“ Ah !” The searcher’s voice, when it presently broke the silence, 
was edged with the triumph he could not quite suppress. 

“ You may break, you may shatter the vase, as you will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” 

Julius read the couplet aloud, adding, hastily, “I have an idea, 
Doidge ! — I’m bound to say I have an idea — but that’s all at pres- 
ent. There’s not evidence enough to hang a dog upon yet.” 

“ Just so, captain — just so. And how are you goin’ to work up 
your evidence ?” 

“ I don’t know ; but in any case we must prpceed very cautiously. 
If my leap in the dark should happen to be in the right direction, 
however, I can at least guess at a reason for Secretan’s extraordinary 
silence.” 

“ Can you, really now ? Well, that’s very clever ! But lookee, 
sir, I won’t play with you any longer. I respect your caution and 
your scruples and all that ; but the truth is, there’s no need for ’em 
— as you shall hear presently. You’ve got your eye on the probable 
culprit, it seems — or, at any rate, some one who’s worth takin’ par- 
tic’lar notice of. Well, I happen to know a party who can tell us at 
a glance whether ’tis our man or not. You won’t tell me his name, 
I suppose ?” 

“ I don’t think it would be right at this stage of the proceed- 
ings.” 

“ Then I’ll humor you, sir. But, anyway, you can tell me whether 
he’s high up or low down in the world ?” 

“ He is in a good position.” 

“Just so ; and consequently has a good way to fall.” 

“ Don’t make too sure of him, Doidge. Consider what irreme- 
diable mischief has come of your over-hasty suspicion in a former 
case,” 


286 


“ Don’t you be alarmed, captain ; and hearken now to my record 
of work during your absence. I’ve been takin’ this ring o’ Mary’s 
up and down the line all through the summer ; I’ve shown it to every 
jeweller in every town within fifty mile o’ Chillington. I had been 
at the job best part o’ three months, and was gettin’ hopeless-like, 
when early this week I made one more cast down among the little 
shops in the heart o’ the low-lying part of Lymport; and in a small 
street, where they mostly sell stinkin’ fish and second-hand seamen’s 
outfits, and which I had passed over before as not worth a visit, I 
found the man as sold this pearl ring to a gentleman just about the 
date when it must have been given to Mary.” 

“ Is he certain about the ring ? Could he swear to it ?” 

“ It has got his own marks on it. He could swear to ’t anywhere 
or anywhen.” 

“ Does he remember the gentleman well ? Did he take any special 
note of his appearance ? Does he know his name ?” 

The self-contained soldier was now on fire with excitement. 
Doidge talked on with the assurance of a man with whom suspense 
is practically over. 

“ No ; he knows nothing of the gentleman’s name, but can swear 
to his appearance — noticed one or two points which he remembers 
perfectly.” 

“What are the points, man? You madden me with your slow- 
ness !” 

“ I’m not goin’ to tell you ; I may have reasons for caution as well 
as you. I’m not goin’ to let my enemy slip by marching oS on a 
false trail as I did once before. Tell me when and where to find 
him, and I’ll manage to let my identifyin’ witness clap eyes to him, 
and then we shall know where we are. He’s a little beast of a Jew- 
shopman, my witness is, who, I reckon, would swear to anythin’ for 
gain ; but if he’s thrown across the path of our gentleman acciden- 
tal like, I shall know well enough whether the recognition be a true 
article or a make-up.” 

“ We’ll arrange a day as soon as possible ; and if the recognition 
does come off, will you send to me at Bickington at once ?” 

“Yes, I’ll send on the man himself, and you’ll know him fast 
enough — a little dirty, hook-nosed villain, five-foot nothing high, with 
a gray beard hanging down to ’s waist.” 

“ Very well, I shall give orders that any one answering to that 
description be sent in to me at once. What do you think of a 
market-day for our experiment? Every one in the neighbor- 


287 


hood will be driving into town at one time or another on that 
day.” 

“ Very good ; to-morrow is market-day, and the sooner the trial 
comes off the better. I’ll have my little Jew dawdlin’ about the 
High Street and market-place all day to-morrow, from ten o’clock 
onward, and I’ll be at his side all the while.” 

“ And you might spend some of the time on the town bridge, for 
almost everybody who lives on the south side of the river will be 
driving over it in the course of the morning.” 

“ You’m right, sir; and, what’s more, one can lounge on the 
bridge all day without attractin’ notice, with half the town for com- 
pany. And you are goin’ now, sir? Well, good-bye; and don’t 
be afeard us ’ll get the wrong man this time. I reckon us ’ll either 
miss fire altogether — or kill !” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


Terence Clancy’s spasm of remorse passed over for the time, 
as many others had done before now, and by Thursday morning 
he was once again his cheery, jubilant self. It was then his turn to 
console Nell, who had been a good deal unhinged by his fit of de- 
spair, and who had not his happy faculty of throwing off a wave of 
depression by mere outpouring of the heart to a sympathetic listener. 

His political aspirations, too, w'ere now once more in full working 
order, for Mrs. French-Chichester had dined at the Hall last night, 
and reinvested its master with some of her own ardor and spirit. 
Our Lady Bountiful, as it happened, always took especial pleasure 
in these quiet evenings at Monks Damerel ; for Nell’s ill-concealed 
jealousy of her influence over Terence was an unfailing source of 
enjoyment on the one hand ; and on the other, the training and de- 
velopment of so apt a pupil as Nell’s husband could not fail to be a 
relishing task. 

On this occasion she took more than usual pains to impress upon 
Terence ^what a vista of fine possibilities was opening before him, 
and at the same time gave him precise instructions as to his attitude 
towards Lord Bridistow on the morrow. Nor w^as Nell left out in 
the cold in this matter of advice and encouragement. Mrs. French- 
Chichester decided that both Sir Raby Pigott and Lord Bridistow 
should be brought in to luncheon to-morrow, and gave their in- 
tended hostess many useful hints as to the proper reception of these 
powerful political backers of the future member. 

Nell listened passively, and promised to do her best; but the 
visitor easily managed to give emphasis to her lukewarmness, and to 
further impress Terence with a sense that his interests would always 
be neglected by this unsympathetic wife of his. 

Next morning things fell out very much as this shrewd prophetess 
had foretold. Lord Bridistow and Sir Raby met Terence at the Fal- 
con according to appointment, and in due course were brought on to 
Monks Damerel. They were caught up just outside the lodge gates 
by Lady Bountiful, who also happened to be on her way to lunch 
with Mrs. Clancy. 


289 


At the luncheon-party which ensued Mrs. French-Chichester was 
naturally in her element, and in excellent trim for being great friends 
with Nell, while at the same time making her thoroughly ineflEective. 
She kept the talk well in the groove of politics, upon which topic 
Nell had nothing whatever to say ; and triumphantly monopolized 
the good-natured Lord Bridistow, who hardly got a chance of saying 
a word to his beautiful young hostess. 

Meanwhile Sir Raby Pigott was pompously testing — with much 
skill and aplomb, as he imagined — the political soundness of young 
Clancy. He found Terence a charmingly modest young fellow, not 
too clever, evidently willing to be guided by older and wiser people, 
and with such a genuine Tory basis as would do credit to any Eng- 
lish gentleman of the fine old school. 

The widow enjoyed Terence’s delicious hypocrisy to the full, 
vowing to herself that she had never appreciated him at his true 
worth until to-day. Nell bore up against it as best she could, accept- 
ing with quiet dignity her role as a nonentity, a woman whose duty 
consists of looking pretty and holding her tongue. 

Terence and Mrs. French-Chichester were both really brilliant in 
their respective ways, insomuch that both haply regretted the men- 
tal poverty of their audience. No wonder, she reflected with a sigh, 
Terence was athirst for a larger world when here he had to pare 
down his wit in order to be understood at all. 

After luncheon the gentlemen adjourned to the billiard -room, 
nominally with a view to a game; but the shrewd widow felt tol- 
erably sure that the two guests intended to pocket something better 
than billiard-balls. 

Being really excited and anxious, she was unable to sit still, and 
was glad to walk out onto the terrace jvith Nell. As they strolled 
up and down near the sundial, or leaned against the stone balus- 
trade for a look at the terrace below and the green levels of the old 
formal garden, she amused herself by lecturing the young wife fur- 
ther upon the duties of her new station, and all the social procedure 
necessary for the securing of Terence’s political position. 

Nell listened meekly enough ; being somewhat ashamed at her 
own want of enthusiasm, yet vaguely hoping that time would bring 
her to a better frame of mind. She was aware that the elder lady 
despised her as a spiritless sort of creature, but was not analytical 
enough to perceive that her chief failing in the eyes of this critic 
was something which even time and patience would not amend — 
her scrupulous honesty. In fact, Nell and her husband, and their 
19 


290 


present adviser, lived on three separate ethical planes, the highest 
and lowest of which were too far apart for convenient intercourse. 
Nell, on the upper level, followed honesty as a guiding star; Mrs. 
French-Chichester pursued self-interest no less unswervingly, and 
would admit no other motive into her calculations; while Terence 
sympathized with both, and took a wavering course between them. 

“ I do wish we could put a little life into you, Nell ; you’re just as 
dull as this October day, or the old garden with its tiresome stiffness, 
its atmosphere of dead-and-gone hope, and church-yard quietude.” 
Thus Nell’s visitor wound up her lecture when some half-hour had 
passed without a sign from the men. 

Yet the old garden, if sombre, looked quaint and interesting ; and 
the weather was well enough for October, showing pearly gleams of 
light upon mellowing woods, and gauzy mists creeping up from the 
combe below. 

At length, however, by the time ^^ell and her visitor were heartily 
tired of one another, the subtle scent of havanas stole upon the 
air of the terrace ; the gentlemen were coming round the corner of 
the house. 

In a moment Mrs. French-Chichester read victory in their faces, 
and composed herself to accept it with proper simplicity of aspect. 

Lord Bridistow and Sir Raby were beaming with complaisant 
satisfaction. Terence wore a deprecating, modest expression ; but 
the pose of his figure, the very planting of his feet, betrayed to one 
keen observer that he had just accepted a proffered honor, and that 
his brain was now aglow with triumph. 

As soon as he caught sight of the ladies. Lord Bridistow came 
forward with the frank bonhomie of a school-boy to tell the story of 
the compact just completed, “and forecast a brilliant career for their 
future member, Terence Clancy. Even pompous Sir Raby was talk- 
ative and excited. 

Meanwhile Terence modestly detached himself from the group, 
and, resting upon the terrace balustrade, turned his face to the climb- 
ing oak woods across the combe, and, as the rich promise of the fut- 
ure gathered form and shape, allowed the smile of his heart to pass 
into his eyes. On his left was the old sundial, whose carved in- 
scription had spoken to so many generations of the ancient Bamp- 
fylde family. 

“ Scis horas, nescis horam,''* muttered Terence, as he glanced 
towards it. “ Ah, but I do know the hour. The hour has come. 
The tide of my affairs has already been taken at the flood.” 


291 


His gaze wandered away again to the steep oak coppice and 
downward to where the tall ashes and alders, which marked the 
course of the hidden brook, were cut by the line of the garden wall. 
Presently the whole scene faded again, giving place to fancy pictures 
of nobler line and hue ; then something recalled him to earth again 
suddenly. In the boundary wall below him there was a dainty little 
wrought-iron gate, arched with stone chevrons, and giving access to 
a woodland path which led past the stables to some cottages higher 
up the combe. It was the opening of this gate that arrested his at- 
tention. 

It surprised Terence a little to see the gate opened at all, for the 
stable people were not allowed to pass that way. But his first sur- 
prise quickly gathered force, and was merged in a vague conster- 
nation, when a familiar figure, which he had never learned to face 
without a quickened pulse, came slowly through the narrow opening 
and halted, looking upward towards the terrace. 

The figure supported itself for a few moments against one of the 
gate-piers, then advanced a few steps, then halted once more, as 
though unable to move more than a few yards at a time. 

In this manner the intruder passed over a narrow strip of lawn 
and reached the broad gravel sweep leading up to the terrace steps. 
Terence watched him with a sickness of heart that deepened with 
each tottering effort which brought the man one step nearer. 

“What has he come for? Why has he come in by the little 
gate?” he muttered, making a strenuous effort to brace up his will 
and think coherently. 

Some corner of the questioner’s mind answered promptly, “ He 
has driven into the stable -yard and been told that you are on the 
terrace, and so has made his way hither by the shortest route. He 
has come to say that he has found you out. He is half-dead, by 
the look of him, but with life enough left in him to ruin yours. 
Doidge has you in his grasp at last, and will crush you to powder.” 

Scis horas^ nescis horamP The old sundial seemed to be re- 
peating the words in a mocking whisper. 

The talk and laughter of the group close by were drifting to Ter- 
ence’s ears as though from a distance ; compliments and congratula- 
tions were buzzing behind him, ruin slowly approaching him in 
front. 

He still leaned heavily upon the balustrade, incapable of move- 
ment; but the power of clear thought was coming back to him, 
and, for the first time, a perfect realization of his situation was 


292 


shaping itself in his mind. He perceived that were his enemy in 
possession of the truth — and Ezekiel’s face, now that he was draw- 
ing nearer, left hardly a vestige of doubt on this head — his social ruin 
was more absolute than he had ever yet imagined. He had driven 
Simon out of the country; he stood in Simon’s shoes, in the full en- 
joyment of Simon’s inheritance. Not a human soul would believe 
that he had drifted gradually into this position, without one thought 
of schemins: his friend’s downfall; that the stream of circumstance 
had carried him along, in spite of himself ; that Fate had been too 
strong for him ; that he had been always a weak drifter, but never 
a treacherous plotter — he must needs stand convicted in the eyes of 
all — worst of all, in Nell’s eyes — as a most ignoble betrayer, not 
only of an innocent man, but of a friend and benefactor. He could 
not bear that — could not even begin to bear it ; he could not stand 
upright for a moment under the storm of contumely that was about to 
burst over his head. The torture would kill him, unless, unless — 

He turned his head for a moment, and cast one miserable glance 
backward. 

Nell was looking towards him, flushed and happy, with affection- 
ate pride in her eyes. She had been listening to his praises — was 
already explaining away what seemed like hypocrisy in him, by say- 
ing to herself, “That was but a pretence put on to try me. He 
does in reality think with these gentlemen, and will serve their in- 
terests loyally.” 

His wife’s bright looks seemed to revive Terence’s drooping cour- 
age for the moment. 

“ I’m a coward,” he muttered — “ a weak, cringing coward. What 
proof against me can he possibly have obtained ?” 

But once more that corner of the mind which had apparently 
taken charge of him, and was ordering him about like a master, 
answered his question without hesitation — “When you rode over 
the town bridge an hour or two back, your enemy was among 
the loungers who watched you pass. And who was standing beside 

Doidge ? Some one you failed to recognize ; but you stared at him 

the short, hook-nosed man with the long beard — as though he were 
half familiar. Ah, it is dawning upon you — you recollect him well 
enough now. That was the man who sold you the pearl ring — vour 
gift to Mary Pethick — the one Doidge kept among his relics. 
Don’t cheat yourself by catching at straws — drown at once; down 
with your head, and have done with it. See, your study window’s 
open ; you have pluck enough to cheat your enemy yet. You have 


293 


but to cross this narrow strip of gravel, pass through the open win- 
dow, and pull out a drawer — you know which — then let them rave 
their loudest, you’ll never hear them !” 

Ezekiel had by this time reached the steps giving access to the 
lower terrace, and again halted, clinging for support to a carved 
stone vase. His victim could read his face now, clear as print, and 
the tale might be summed up in the one word — “ruin.” 

Once more Terence turned his despairing eyes to the group on 
his left. The two men and Mrs. French-Chichester were gazing sur- 
prisedly at the approaching figure ; but in Nell’s face there was some- 
thing greater than surprise. He saw, or thought he saw, a growing 
horror of expectation, as though his former half-confession had sud- 
denly grown complete. 

It was the last straw to poor, weak Terence; he could not face the 
coming torture. He thrust himself from the stone balustrade, and 
bent his wavering steps towards the study window. Nell took a 
step forward, as though with the intention of intercepting him, but 
got no farther than the sundial, against which she leaned, staring 
wildly at the intruder. 

Upon seeing his enemy disappear from the terrace above, Ezekiel 
uttered a low, harsh cry, and began to drag himself up the last flight 
of steps. By the time he had reached the terrace level Terence was 
entering the open study window. 

Doidge stood pointing after him, his face black with passion, his 
arm and body quivering. 

The moment afterwards Terence saw the others close round him. 
Doidge’s square figure was concealed behind the two tall gentlemen, 
and Terence seemed to hear the burning words wherewith his enemy 
was denouncing him. He stepped farther into the room and disap- 
peared. 

Yet not a word was spoken — not a syllable escaped Ezekiel’s lips. 
His cry from the lower terrace was the last sound he was ever to utter. 
His soul, at the very moment of discharging its load of vengeance, 
was claimed by Him whose office it would have usurped. The body 
which he had dragged so painfully to within a hand-breadth of his 
goal sank, a lifeless, formless heap, upon the gravel terrace. 

Even as they were bending over the dead Thing in awe and 
wonder, and Nell was kneeling pitifully beside it, with her hand 
straying towards the still heart, there was a loud report from the 
room behind them, and a wail from Nell proclaimed that the little 
drama had ended in a veritable tragedy. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


“ Is that you, Nell ?” 

“ Yes. I am sitting here beside you.” 

A hard smile hovered in Terence’s eyes as he turned them upon 
her, and his weak voice was full of bitterness. 

“ Sitting here beside me ?” he muttered. “ Yes ; and passing a 
cruel judgment upon me, even as I expected. You’ve no mercy 
for me. You sit in judgment upon me, rehearsing all my faults, 
without a thought of forgiveness in your heart. We could never 
have gone on living together now that you’ve found me out, and I 
solemnly declare that it was the expectation of your merciless ver- 
dict on my sins that made me shoot myself. I’m glad I did it.” 

Terence was still lying in the study, on the sofa, where they had 
first laid him. He had shot himself in the breast, and was mortally 
wounded. He knew that his end was but a question of hours. As 
he had flatly declined to be moved upstairs. Jack Syme and the 
surgeon who had been summoned from Lymport by telegraph had 
done their best for him, and perforce acquiesced in his wishes. 

Towards the two doctors and the servants who had assisted them 
Terence had shown his old gentleness of manner, praising their skill 
and thanking them for their care and pains ; towards Nell alone he 
betrayed a bitterness of spirit such as shocked all those who wit- 
nessed it. 

Good-natured Jack Syme had endeavored to explain to Mrs. 
Clancy that her husband, though conscious, was really not himself, 
and had expressed a hope that, were he to sleep for an hour or two, 
he would, on reawaking, return to his natural state. But the 
patient had now slept many hours, under the influence of morphia, 
and his feeling of repulsion towards his wife remained unaltered. 

Nor did Nell seem overwhelmed by this unnatural attitude of 
his ; for her own mental state was too strange to permit of much 
resentment at his alienation. He had made no confession ; and 
none seemed needful. She seemed to know all from the moment 
when Ezekiel Doidge stood pointing after him from the top of the 
terrace steps. Nor could she quite grasp the fact that Terence was 


295 


really upon his death-bed. The discovery of his incredible duplicity 
had, as it were, inundated her consciousness, submerging all other 
things, whether in the nature of fact or fancy. She had lost the 
power of realizing anything external to this black discovery ; and 
could only reiterate again and again the miserable items of the 
story, the manifold lies he had told her, his deliberate, long -con- 
tinued insistence upon SimonV ^'uilt, his cozening of Simon’s 
friends into that belief. Terence had so shocked her out of her 
normal self that for the time she could hardly believe in her own 
identity. 

But after some time a terrible self-repulsion took possession of 
Nell, a blank despair at her own hardness. 

“ They tell me he can hardly live through the night,” she whis- 
pered many times over as she watched beside him, “ yet I don’t 
seem able to believe it. He’s going to leave me forever, yet I can 
only harp and harp upon his baseness. Am I going mad, or am 
I the hardest and wickedest wife that ever condemned an erring 
husband ?” 

After the few words above mentioned there was dead silence in 
the dimly lighted room. The husband and wife, upon whom was 
already concentrated the talk of an amazed and horrified district, 
were apparently sundered so absolutely that the grave could not 
part them farther. 

The whole story was now perfectly well known, for Ezekiel had 
sent his witness on to Bickington, in accordance with his promise, 
after the identification of Clancy at the bridge. Immediately there- 
upon he had himself made straight for Monks Damerel, doubtless 
possessed by an insane fear lest his revenge should be snatched 
from him by Captain Rush ; and, but for a prolonged fainting-fit at 
the mill, he must have reached his destination almost as soon as 
Terence and his two guests. 

Upon learning the news of Terence’s identification. Captain Rush 
had himself galloped over to the Hall, hoping to anticipate poor, 
crazy Doidge and save Terence from the disgrace of a public expos- 
sure ; but he had only arrived to find that all was over. Afterwards 
he had pushed on to Moor Gates, and rapidly driven Kate back to 
Monks Damerel, though, as Nell declined to see even her sister, this 
well-considered step had been of no avail. 

But Nell and Terence gave no thought to what might be going 
on in the outer world; their own despair was like a dark eddy, round 
which they were being whirled with deadened hearts, unable to move 


29G 


hand or foot— face to face, yet with a gulf between them that nei- 
ther could cross. 

When Terence at length broke the silence his strange bitterness 
seemed to be pricking him like a goad. 

“ How long is it since Syme left me ? How long have I been 
asleep or unconscious?” 

“ Many hours ! It is now midnight, or close upon it.” 

“I suppose you have spent all these hours in reckoning up my 
misdeeds, in comparing me, the sinner, with that immaculate hero- 
saint of yours, whom I hate now more than ever? Ah! I see by 
your face that I’ve guessed aright. I knew well enough what kind 
of mercy to expect from a virtuous woman. I say again that it is 
your spotless virtue that has killed me. With a wife more human 
and merciful, who could have made allowance and tempered judg- 
ment with human kindness, I might have repented and confessed 
long ago. You led me astray with your beauty first — for I loved 
poor Mary, and never dreamed of evading my solemn promise to her. 
Yes, but for you, I should have made her my wife, and we should 
have been happy. I’ve never been happy with you. I never could 
hope to live up to your crushingly superior level. I repeat, your 
beauty first led me astray, and then your virtue kept me astray, 
scaring me into one deception after another. I had to go on lying 
to save myself from your scorn. Nor did you ever really love me ; 
you had for me only a kind of spurious affection bred of the desire 
to free yourself from an irksome tie. Had I ever possessed your 
love — such love as a woman is capable of, and such as poor Mary 
gave me — I should have made a clean breast of it long ago. Curious, 
isn’t it, that this parting scene of ours should be bringing out the 
truth like this? And not only do I see the past very clearly now, 
but I also foresee the future. I know precisely what is coming, per- 
ceive it as clearly as though it were actually happening before my 
eyes.” 

These last sentences might have given Nell the key to her hus- 
band’s evil mood, but she was herself too distracted to see through 
his ravings. Every word he said — for he seemed to speak quietly 
and naturally, being too weak to raise his voice — was to her abso- 
lute truth ; and she could hardly breathe under the heavy weight of 
his condemnation. 

She sank upon her knees beside him, moaning, “lam a bad, hard 
woman, Terence ; no condemnation of yours can be worse than that 
passed by myself. It is true that I have been going over your 


297 


faults, that I don’t seem able to forgive you. There’s nd power left 
me, I believe, but that of merciless judgment.” 

Then Terence began to groan and writhe with the pain, which 
had left him for a time, to return now with trebled force, and Nell 
went sobbing into the other room to fetch the doctor. Syme re- 
turned with her at once, drugged -the suffering man off to sleep 
again, and once more left them together. 

Nell once more took her place beside the couch, but not the same 
place. She sat close to it now, with her hand resting upon the cov- 
erlet near to her husband’s. Her mind was entering upon a new 
phase, her spirit drawing nearer to his unconscious one, and a strange, 
pitiful love was beginning to flutter in her heart. 

She trembled with fear lest this apparent return to her better self 
should prove but a passing mood ; but time went by and it still held 
good. 

When Terence awoke, his expression was changed ; he, too, seemed 
different, as though her spirit had been working upon his, or as 
though both had passed under some soothing, mysterious influence, 
been softened by some “ sweet oblivious antidote.” 

“ It was terrible to see you in such pain, Terence. I’m thankful 
. to know that it has passed away again.” 

Terence’s hand moved a few inches and lay beside hers, touching, 
though not holding it. 

“Yes,4he pain has left me, Nell; and when it returns you can 
yourself measure out the morphia, for I want no one else to inter- 
rupt us. There is no need to call Jack Syme in. I will tell you ex- 
actly what to do. Nell, we must make an effort to wrestle down 
the barrier that’s between us. There’s a conflict before us, yet I 
feel that we may yet attain to peace before we part. Let me know 
now what Doidge said ; tell me the exact words in which he de- 
nounced me.” 

“ He spoke no word — not a syllable, Terence.” 

He gazed at her incredulously, but her pale, solemn face was a 
clear assurance that she had no thought of deceiving him. 

“ What can have tied his tongue ? I read my ruin in his face. 
He would never have spared me of his own free-will. What can 
have hindered his revenge?” 

“ I firmly believe that he was called away to some better task.” 

Nell spoke in a clear, low voice, with the reverence of one who 
touches upon some holy mystery. 

“ Do you mean that he’s dead ?” groaned Terence. “ Nell, Nell, 


29$ 


his blood is upon my head ! I might have saved him. The aneu- 
rism must have burst. I always knew he had it, and I never made 
an effort to save him. >Jo one else knew it. His life was intrusted 
to me, do you see? and I let him die rather than risk the discovery 
of my secret. Nell, take your hand from mine; I’m not fit to touch 
you. I know myself all through now, and find no clean spot in my 
soul. I did think I had been honest in my profession, but even 
there I am stained — stained ; there’s no hope for one so base, so 
stained !” 

Nell knelt beside her husband and wept over him. His despair 
called forth all the love and mercy in her heart ; and he wept with 
her like a child. 

“I must tell you all now, Nell — all; and then you’ll surely turn 
from me again.” 

Then he poured forth the story of his long duplicity — with truth 
and candor, and a power of self- judgment that had never come to 
him before ; and the bad black Thing that Nell had shuddered at 
was now seen, not as a great dominating carved figure of treachery, 
but rather as a strange pathetic one of human weakness — a mournful 
shape, built up piece by piece, moulded by the unwilling hand of a 
workman who had many, many times turned from his task, loathing 
it and himself, yearning often to shatter it to fragments, but too 
weak to destroy his own miserable handiwork. 

“ That’^s aZ^,” he concluded ; “ that’s the story of my li^e since I 
first knew you ; and the moral of it is sad enough — that kind feel- 
ing and good intentions go for nothing, worse than nothing, without 
principle and will to back them. You know the worst of me now, 
Nell, and I can pass into the other state free from the burden of any 
secret. But I fear you will turn ?” 

No, Nell did not turn from him now. Sacred tears fell upon his 
face, his wife’s lips met his, breathing tenderness and yearning pity. 

“Nell, my own love, what can have possessed me to say those 
cruel things to you a while back ? I scarce know ; a demon seemed 
to possess me. Ah, but I do know, and I’ll tell it out straight and 
plain, for sure I’ve had enough of covering up my sins ! The demon 
was just jealousy. I felt that you were unforgiving, and that was 
torture ; but something rankled deeper — the thought that my degra- 
dation was his elevation, that you were longing for Am, making a 
martyr of him, setting him up once more upon his pedestal, while I 
sank lower and lower. I’ve always been more jealous of him than 
even you imagined; even now I can’t bear to mention his name. 


299 


Yes, jealous always. Truth is truth, and I declare I hated him the 
more for the benefits he heaped upon me. ‘Jealousy cruel as the 
grave ?’ Aye, and perhaps outlasting it, and verily ‘ the coals thereof 
are coals of fire.’ . . . But, rny love, never give another thought to 
those jealous ravings of mine — lies, all lies, I say. Your superiority, 
which I railed at, so far from hurting me, saved me from complete 
degradation, kept my conscience alive. I’ve never been quite free 
from remorse ; half my late ambition sprang from the desire to stifle 
it. Sweet wife, kiss me forgiveness of those lies. . . . Ah, Nellie, 
you’re a good and loving woman !” After a pause he added, “ Think 
how I can best atone to you for those ravings, sweetheart.” 

“Do not think of me now, Terence; but — but surely an atone- 
ment is due to — to some one else ?” 

Terence understood her clearly, and the light went from his face ; 
he had not exaggerated the power of his jealousy. 

“*Yom can tell him, Nell — that man, I mean — that I am sorry.” 

“ No one knows whither he has gone ; I may never see him again.” 

“ Say that again ; it comforts me to hear it. I trust and hope 
you never will see him again — never !” 

“ And remember, Terence, that he bore public disgrace for our 
sake. Surely, oh, surely, there should be public atonement ?” 

“ Would you have the parson preach out my shame from the pul- 
pit? Yon know well enough that the whole neighborhood will be 
ringing with my wickedness and his noble generosity — won’t that 
be enough for you?” 

“Oh, Terence, you disappoint me. Surely at this solemn time 
you must be willing to make whatever reparation lies in your 
power ?” 

“ I’m dying with a load of shame on my name — isn’t that repara- 
tion enough ? If he’s as grand and magnanimous as you’ve always 
made out, that will satisfy him, I should think; especially as he’ll 
come back, as I know well — and the knowledge is a worse torture 
than the pain I’ve been through — to claim you 

She drew away without a word, and a burning blush covered her 
pale face. 

“Nell, Nell, ’tis a shame to hurt you so, but that’s what will hap- 
pen, unless — Listen, now. You urge me to a self-sacrifice that 
tastes very bitter. I wonder if you desire this so much as to be will- 
ing to match it with one of your own ?” 

“ I would do anything to give you ease of mind and cure this ter- 
rible craze that possesses you.” 


300 


“Would you — would you? If I undertook to make the repara- 
tion you desire, would you promise me on your honor never to speak 
to Simon again, to avoid even seeing him, to leave the neighbor- 
hood should he ever return ?” 

“ Must I never even thank him for all he has gone through for my 
sake ?” she asked, weeping. 

“You may write to him once. Put your thanks into one letter 
and have done with him and the whole matter forever ; then I think 
I could die in peace.” 

For some moments there was no sound in the room but that of 
Nell’s sobs, which gradually ceased. 

When she leaned over him again she was dry-eyed and deadly 
pale ; and Terence put his arms about his wife’s neck, knowing with- 
out a word that he had won his desire. 

“ My own dear love,” he whispered, “ have I asked too muc]i of 
you ?” 

Her face quivered, but he saw that she was steadfastly bent upon 
making the compact and keeping it. Then the power of self-abne- 
gation entered into Terence’s soul like a fire, and burned away at 
last the mean jealousy that darkened it. With his arms still round 
her, his heart answering to hers, and with a strange exaltation in his 
feeble voice, he murmured : 

“ Darling, you conquer me utterly. Most true and noble wife. 
I’m not so base as I believed. A weak and erring man, but not so 
base as to make your pain the price of my right-doing. God forbid 
that I should fetter you so ! Oh, Nell, Nell, you’re free, my own 
love, absolutely free! I’ll have no compact with you — I’ll make 
that reparation of my own free will ; and God bless you for shaming 
me into doing my duty ! My love, the torture’s coming again. 
Listen, for my strength’s failing. Tell the vicar all, and let him 
make my story public as he thinks best. . . . Sweetheart, kiss me 
once more, and don’t weep so, darling. . . . And remember always 
that I loved you — remember that, for ’tis the only thing to set 
against my faults. I love you, I love *you — ‘unto the last gasp, 
darling.’ Who was it said those words ? I cannot remember now, 
but let me repeat them as my own — ‘ unto the last gasp, darling ’! ” 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


There is no commoner or more conventional phrase than that 
which describes any given community as being “ like one man ; ” and 
in the case of Chillington, when the story of Secretan’s self-sacrifice 
and Clancy’s duplicity spread through the little community, any one 
man, almost, might have been picked out to give voice to the senti- 
ments of all. 

The town and neighborhood, in fact, received the news very 
much as any ordinary person of average goodness of heart might 
have been expected to do. There was first a strong wave of indig- 
nation against the real culprit, together with a desire to make amends 
to the man who had suffered wrongly, whether by his own fault or 
not. For some eight and forty hours this mixed feeling held sway ; 
then came the news of Terence Clancy’s death, and with it a ten- 
dency to qualify judgment with mercy. For the ancient sentiment 
which forbids a man to speak ill of a dead brother is rooted deeply 
in the soil of human nature ; and, though tending somewhat towards 
injustice to the living — since man would seem to have a certain quan- 
tum of judging- energy in his system which must be worked off in 
some direction or other — is doubtless good at the core. At any 
rate, when the young squire of Monks Darnerel died, the voice of 
condemnation took a gentler tone, and a profound curiosity as to 
the rights of the whole matter took possession of the town. 

It was understood that Mr. Nelson, the vicar, had been requested 
by the dying man to make the whole story known, and it was ex- 
pected that he would do so from the pulpit. But for reasons of his 
own the vicar preferred to discharge his trust in a manner separate 
from his ofifice; and, as Clancy’s death entailed a new general meet- 
ing of the cricket club, he made it known that the opportunity 
would be availed of for saying what was necessary for the purpose. 

When the day came round, and all the neighborhood was once 
more gathered in the ancient town-hall, Mr. Nelson came forward 
and quietly made his statement. He explained that he wished to 
speak as a friend to his friend, not as a pastor to his flock, since 
his own judgment had erred in common with theirs. They had 


302 


all alike assumed silence under accusation to be synonymous with 
guilt. 

After which prologue he told the story in brief, plain terms, put- 
ting forward no comments of his own, drawing no deductions, point- 
ing no moral, but allowing the facts of the case to speak for them- 
selves. He was listened to amid an impressive silence. 

Afterwards Lord Bridistow rose to his feet and requested the 
chairman’s permission to make a suggestion. It was to the effect 
that Sir Simon Secretan should be enrolled as their new captain. 

“ For though it would be but a small step to take,” the speaker 
continued, “ I think it would be a step in the right direction. 
We’ve wronged the man, and I think we ought to show our sense 
of having done so. I don’t pretend to any better right of judgment 
than any one of you ; I don’t even know whether my friend was 
right or wrong in allowing us to misjudge him so. Perhaps his 
conduct was quixotic and overstrained, and that sort of thing ; but 
I do think there’s a spice of nobility to be found somewhere in it; 
and I do believe we want a few more such Quixotes just to show us 
what poor old human nature is still capable of. I don’t know where 
my friend Secretan is. None of us know that. His solicitor, even, 
is not allowed to know his address, but conducts his affairs through 
another agent at the Cape. Yet I suppose we can convey to him 
the news of our decision, and that simple message will suffice to 
show our wish to welcome him among us again. And, gentlemen, I 
do believe that if he ever comes back we shall understand our Quix- 
ote better, be ready to accept him as one who practises as much, 
nay more, than he ever preached. I ‘think, though he failed in many 
of his schemes, he has now succeeded in one thing — that is, in edu- 
cating us up to the point of comprehending a man made of some- 
what finer stuff than ourselves.” 

Sir Simon Secretan w^as elected accordingly, with every sign of 
grave approval, but without applause or further discussion, for the 
shadow of a recent tragedy hung heavily over the gathering. It 
seemed but a few days since poor Terence had poured forth his wit 
and drollery from that platform, and most of those present were glad 
that a complete revelation of his wrong-doing permitted them to still 
’ think kindly of their favorite of yesterday. 

This quiet and subdued public meeting was the only event that 
broke the routine life of Chillington for a considerable time. Eze- 
kiel Doidge’s mill, together with all his other property, was sold un- 
der the terms of his will, and the son of a Lymport tradesman 


303 


reij^ned in his stead. Mr. Tredethlyn. and his two daughters had 
gone abroad, and it was understood that they were not expected home 
again for a twelvemonth or more. The Hall at Monks Damerel was 
in the hands of a care-taker ; Moor Gates was let by the month to 
a family whose respectable dulness tended rather to intensify the . 
stagnation of the neighborhood. Under which circumstances Mrs. 
French-Chichester fought for some months against a steadily grow- 
ing depression, then shut up the manor-house and vanished London- 
ward — just in time, as she herself declared, to escape suicide. 

Meanwhile, Chillington wasted much curious speculation upon the 
question of Sir Simon’s return, until, no sign or hint of such a prob- 
ability being published, even that topic lost interest, leaving the 
weather, the crops, and the state of trade once more to reign su- 
preme. 

When the spring came round again, however, a slight breeze of 
interest sprang up from an unexpected quarter — the direction of 
Bickington Park. 

It was rumored that the pottering old squire, whose existence was 
apt to be almost forgotten during his son’s absence, was about to be- 
come a speculator in house-building. He was going to erect a dozen 
or more big mansions along the eastern fringe of the property, thus 
making a kind of fashionable suburb for Chillington, to be occupied 
mainly by summer visitors from Lymport — in short, a desirable in- 
land health resort. 

This report held the public ear and the commercial mind of Chil- 
lington for some weeks, when the looked-for suburb dwindled to a 
mere brace of buildings; and, finally, even that pair of mansions 
collapsed, leaving but a game-keeper’s lodge to stem the tide of a 
thwarted town’s indignation. 

Yet things were in reality not quite so bad as this; for the Squire 
of Bickington did actually contemplate the erection of a large coun- 
try-house; not in the direction of the town, but away on the far- 
ther verge of his property, a narrow strip of which reached down to 
the left bank of the Culmer River. 

He had not as yet quite made up his mind to the step; and, 
curiously enough, the final decision of the matter rested with Miss 
Tredethlyn. Not that, as the whole district presently concluded, 
she was about to marry the squire’s son — for that affair has not as 
yet progressed beyond the point where we last left it — but for rea- 
sons that can easily be set forth. 

Briefly, then, it must be explained that Captain Saunderson had 


804 


by this time so far recovered his health as to feel equal to support- 
ing the rigors of his native climate ; and, further, was possessed by 
a craving, surprising in so delicate a man, to resume the robust 
sports and pastimes proper to an Englishman. In fact, he was 
heartily sick of continental lounging, and had joyfully made up his 
mind to settle at home. 

Now, as an ardent Nimrod, he naturally had hankerings after 
Leicestershire; but honest Mrs. Saunderson had other views, and by 
judicious handling gently led him to follow the same, while seeming 
only to be following his lead. For in truth, being a humble woman 
at the core, she had misgivings as to her reception in the county so- 
ciety for which she thirsted. 

“My dear John,” as she herself put it with a naivete that no for- 
eign travel could obliterate, “ advertisement is the soul of modern 
life; without it you can’t plant a new thing upon the market, any- 
way. Well, I’m a new thing to society, and maybe not a very high- 
class article neither — ‘ seventeen under proof when bottled,’ as we 
used to say ; and advertisement is what I need. Just as you go to 
the doctor’s to certify the excellence of a new whiskey or gin, so 
must you go to people in society to advertise, and answer for, me. 
Now, if we go and pitch our tent in a new county, you’ll be free to 
hunt your fill, no doubt, but who’ll call on your wife, I should like 
to know ? Whereas, if you take a place in the Chillington district, 
with my nieces and some of their friends to give me a lift, happen 
I’ll do well enough. You’ll get hunting there, too, and salmon- 
fishing in the Culmer, as well as heaps of shootin’ — and my peo- 
ple at Lymport won’t never interfere with us. I’ll answer for 
that.” 

Thus it fell upon a day that Captain Saunderson and his wife 
drove up to the Falcon Hotel at Chillington, with the avowed ob- 
ject of spending a week or two in exploiting the neighborhood ; 
whereupon Squire Rush, with the intuition of true genius, at once 
perceived the possibilities of the situation. Julius, as luck would 
have it, was away soldiering in Ireland at this time, so this deep 
schemer was perfectly free to work out his plots. 

Accordingly, the first thing he did was to install the Saundersons 
at Bickington Park, and to drive them all round the neighborhood 
house-hunting. This continued until they had inspected every bit 
of brick and mortar on the books of the local house-agents ; but, 
alas! the search was in vain — there was nothing vacant at all likely 
to suit them. 


305 


The squire’s spirits sank low ; but he rallied swiftly, and resolved 
upon a stroke at once subtle and bold. 

First, however, he deemed it advisable to write confidentially to 
Miss Tredethlyn at Bordighera, with a view to sounding her con- 
cerning the proposed scheme, for it was necessary to know clearly 
how she was likely to receive the seventeen-under-proof aunt as a 
neighbor. 

Kate’s reply happened to be satisfactory ; and with that letter 
crushed in his pocket, Mr. Rush stepped up to his two guests and 
roundly offered to build a house for them of any size and shape and 
style they might desire. That was how the new mansion on the 
lip of the Culmer vale came into existence. 

The Tredethlyns returned from the Continent soon after the in> 
stallation of Captain and Mrs. Saunderson in their new home, when 
Kate at once set about giving a loyal support to Aunt Mary’s efforts 
towards making of herself an article suitable for planting upon the 
social market. 

Nor did the task prove so severe as Kate had anticipated. Money 
is money, whether poured from the mouth of a vulgar gin-bottle, or 
emanating from the breeches-pocket of the noblest of Norman an- 
cestors; and Kate found it to contain a power of enlarging a neigh- 
borhood’s charity such as no human rhetoric could possess. Mrs. 
French-Chichester came and assisted her zealously ; and the grad- 
ual, perhaps painful, process of social establishment to which ex- 
pectation had pointed, turned out to be no more than an easy slide 
down an inclined plane." 

The Machiavel of Bickington watched the proceedings meanwhile 
from the standpoint of a benevolent spectator; noted with deep 
satisfaction the growing intimacy between Moor Gates and Culmer 
Lodge, as the new place was called, and slyly bided his time. 

The Saundersons mounted their establishment in the early sum- 
mer, and were firmly planted in the social soil by the middle of au- 
tumn. Julius was to be home for his two months’ leave about 
Christmas-time, when the squire’s plan must either be brought to a 
triumphant conclusion or finally dropped ; for Mr. Rush had made 
up his mind that, were his soldier son to return to Ireland once 
more a free, unscathed bachelor, he might as well give up his pet 
scheme in despair. 

In due time Captain Rush came home, and the squire’s suspense 
reached the feverish stage. The hunting season was in full swing, 
the weather open, and Julius appeared to have no thought beyond 
20 


306 


the pleasures of the chase. But after some hopeless weeks a cheer- 
ing frost set in, and once more the squire’s courage revived. 

Having seen a good deal of Captain Saunderson in the hunting- 
field, Julius naturally became a frequent visitor at Culmer Lodge as 
soon as the frost put an end to sport ; and, as he came and went, 
the private league against the doomed man’s freedom was working 
constantly and subtly. Aunt Mary could never get through a week 
without having dear Kate over to enliven her, and was ahvays get- 
ting up some little dance or other entertainment for dear Kate’s 
benefit ; Captain Saunderson was under strict orders to press his in- 
timacy with Julius ; to the squire was assigned the task of keeping 
Julius thoroughly well bored of home. In a word, between three 
or four of them, the stubborn bachelor was successfully immeshed. 

In truth. Captain Rush was a very willing victim ; and the pres- 
ence of Kate’s homely relative appeared to have just the soothing 
effect upon his pride which his father had anticipated. He slid 
smoothly into a picturesque kind of intimacy with Miss Tredethlyn, 
an easeful relation such as permitted them to show one another 
those good qualities which they had formerly been at such pains to 
conceal ; and so gradually the barrier between them was worn thin- 
ner and thinner, until his attentions became those of a real suitor; 
after which he was too proud a man to withdraw, even if intimacy 
had lessened liking, which was far from being the case. Thus it 
came about one night, on the occasion of a dance at Culmer Lodge, 
that these tiresome young people, who had given their friends such 
a deal of unnecessary trouble and anxiety, sank their pride to the 
betrothal point ; and the squire hardly slept for two nights after- 
wards. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


“My dear Kate, allow me to state that this son and heir of mine 
is shockingly spoiled.” 

“ I believe you’re right, Julius ; and I think no one has contrib- 
uted to this disastrous state of things more than yourself.” 

“ Tut — tut, you libel me ! Why, every one knows what a stern 
parent I am ?” 

“Your wife has yet to acquire that piece of knowledge, however.” 

Kate had her little son in her arms, and was watching her husband 
finish his breakfast; and a very handsome, proud, happy young 
mother she looked. If the courtship of this young couple had con- 
sisted of alternate storm and gloom, it was tolerably evident that 
their three years of married life had been of quite another com- 
plexion. 

“ I repeat,” persisted Julius, pushing back his chair and opening 
his newspaper, “ that this young scamp is a positive disgrace to us ; 
and the only question is — who is to bear the blame ?” 

“Suppose we agree to put it all upon the squire, Julius? You 
might call him in at once — I saw him pass down the greenhouse not 
five minutes since — and read him a filial lecture on the spot. It 
might have a good effect upon this boisterous youth, whom I shall 
endeavor to keep quiet for the first time in his life while the lecture’s 
proceeding.” 

“Very good!” said Julius, “I’ll follow your suggestion; for the 
truth is, my father has got somewhat out of hand lately. He is not 
kept in nearly such good order as my troop used to be. I’ll call 
him in at once.” 

“Call who in, dear lad?” asked the squire himself, stepping 
through the door which communicated with the greenhouses on this 
side. 

“ The Squire of Bickington,” Julius answered, looking sternly at 
his father. “ And it is my duty to speak seriously to the old gen- 
tleman. I am given to understand that he has been found aiding 
and abetting a fond mother, and a brace of foolish nurses, in the 
demoralization of that youngster yonder. I can call half a dozen 


308 


witnesses to prove his guilt, and my intention is to make a severe 
example of him. What have you to say, sir, in defence of this mis- 
guided grandfather ?” 

For a moment the old squire stood holding the door-handle, and 
regarding his son with a scared and puzzled expression ; then a sly 
smile wrinkled his face, and a gentle chuckle ensued. 

“ Have you instituted these proceedings against me, Kate ? How 
dare you set one criminal to try another? I’ll rob you of that little 
wretch for a whole morning if you go a-plotting against an old man 
so ; or stay, give me over the precious little lad at once, and I may 
forgive you this time.” 

“The fact is,” said Kate, with a proud smile at her husband, “ we 
are such an unhappy couple that we’re forced to sink our differences 
sometimes by an assault upon a third party. Little Julius won’t 
come to you — see !” 

Little Julius, in fact, sent up a powerful roar by way of protest 
against the suggested exchange, and had to be propitiated by the 
hasty offer of some half-dozen light articles ; after throwing which 
upon the floor one after another, he cheered up so far as to consent 
to be perched upon his grandfather’s shoulder for a space. 

“ There — now that we’ve settled our differences,” said the old man, 
beaming upon bis son and daughter, “ I’ll tell you both a secret. 
There’s an interesting letter for Kate in my coat-pocket.” 

“ From whom ?” 

“Ah, that’s just what you’re dying to know, as I’m quite aware; 
but I’m going to sell my news. Now listen : you promise to lend 
me this little chap and his nurse for an hour’s drive this afternoon, 
and I’ll tell you I” " 

“ Is it from the Cape?” asked Kate, eagerly. “ Has Simon writ- 
ten at last?” 

“ The letter’s from London, so don’t excite yourself about noth- 
ing, my dear. Why should Simon write ? He has forgotten us all 
long ago. Why, how long is it since he left home?” 

“How old is Young Hopeful?” asked the boy’s father. 

“ One year, nine months, and five days, at six o’clock this morn- 
ing,” answered the grandfather, promptly. 

“Then Simon has been an exile a little over four years.” 

“ He’ll leave his bones in a foreign land, be very sure of that,” 
the squire continued, slyly bestowing a lump of sugar upon Young 
Hopeful. 

“ Give me the letter, please.” 


309 


“ Give me your promise first, my dear Kate !’’ 

“You shall have the boy from two till half-past.” 

“From two till three, or you never see your letter!” 

The squire held up the missive enticingly, address downwards, 
and Master Julius promptly snatched it out of his hand. Where- 
upon Kate wheedled the letter from her son, and cried : 

“Julius, look — look! Simon’s handwriting, and the London 
postmark ?” 

“Posted by his solicitors, no doubt,” Julius answered, calmly. 

“ Is it, indeed ?” Kate laughed, excitedly, as she tore open the 
letter. Then, after perusing a few lines, this dignified young matron 
began to dance round the room, crying, “ He has come home — poor 
old Simon ! and wants to know whether we should care to have him 
here for a few days — dear old Simon! — because he has no other 
friends in these parts to whom he cares to so. Oh, Julius, isn’t it 
pitiful ?” 

“ What’s the matter now?” asked Julius, who always waxed pro- 
vokingly cool when deeply interested. “Is the man homeless, or 
starving, that you must needs waste pity upon him ?” 

But Julius could not altogether conceal the fact that he, too, was 
excited. He and the squire devoured the letter over Kate’s shoulder ; 
and all three kept up a running fire of pleased comment as they did so. 

“Well,” concluded Julius, quickly recovering his usual phlegm, 
“ you had better write to this returned exile in a day or two, though 
it’s evident that he is not over keen about coming down here.” 

“ Write in a day or two?” exclaimed his wife, indignantly ; “ wire 
this instant, you mean! Pray ring the bell, Julius, and don’t be so 
abominably cool.” 

“ You’re welcome to get into a fume, Kate, without which no wom- 
an’s happiness is complete; but I warn you that you’ll be disappointed. 
Simon writes calmly, and talks of leaving the country again in a few 
weeks ; and I’ve little doubt that such is his real intention. It’s evi- 
dent to me that he’s wrapped up in this adopted daughter of his, and 
thinks of nobody else; that he has no idea of settling among us again 
and renewing old friendships. I notice an undertone of bitterness in 
his letter, and — ” 

“ Julius, will you have the kindness to adjourn to the stables, or 
go round the greenhouses with your father? You are only interrupt- 
ing my household duties here, both of you.” 

Having thus got rid of her men-kind, Kate despatched her tele- 
gram, and fell to ruminating. 


310 


Should she send a note over to Monks Darnerel to acquaint Nell 
with this interesting news ? No ; she quickly decided to take no 
such step, though the temptation to do so was considerable. In fact, 
Kate had long ago thought out a policy to meet such an eventuality 
as this of Simon’s return. Conscious of an intense desire to throw 
him and her sister together, she felt that any step she might take in 
that direction would only tend to defeat her own end. If Simon ever 
were minded to return to his old love, he should be left absolutely 
free. Any hint of leading or persuasion, any manipulation of cir- 
cumstances, or smoothing of his path, might be fatal. 

Nor was Kate at all certain as to her sister’s views on this sub- 
ject. It had been tacitly agreed between them never to touch upon 
it. Even in their most confidential moments Simon’s name was nev- 
er mentioned. 

On her return from the Continent the young mistress of Monks 
Dainerel had naturally been the centre of much romantic interest and 
curiosity. A little stir was created when she first settled down at the 
Hall with her father ; after which there ensued a pause of expectation 
throughout the neighborhood. 

As a matter of course it was prophesied that Sir Simon Secretan 
would return in a year or two, and would quickly persuade Mrs. 
Clancy to once more change her name. The time went by, how- 
ever, and this most symmetrical arrangement grew less and less 
probable; whereupon many other suitors began to cast sheep’s-eyes 
towards the beautiful young widow. Indeed, Nell had more oppor- 
tunities of changing her condition than even this quick-eyed district 
was ever aware of. But a widow she remained, making no attempt 
to shut herself up from the world, yet apparently concerning herself 
very little about it. 

On the whole, people were disappointed with Mrs. Clancy of 
Monks Darnerel. They would have liked one extreme or the other ; 
either a woe-begone young widow, living a life of deep romantic se- 
clusion, and only exhibiting a pale interesting countenance to the 
world at large about once a year, or a dazzling young queen reign- 
ing triumphantly — and they got neither. 

As the day wore on, and Kate received no reply to her pressing 
telegram, her excitement increased ; for she began to think it prob- 
able that Simon would later in the day answer the message in per- 
son. 

In the course of the afternoon there were a good many visitors to 
receive, and every fresh arrival gave her a thrill of expectation. Ev- 


311 


ery moment, almost, she expected to hear Sir Simon Secretan an- 
nounced. 

But her drawing-room filled and emptied; routine talk buzzed on 
unflaggingly ; and the commonplace decorum of the afternoon was 
unbroken by anything more dramatic than the announcement of a 
new engagement. 

At length the cup-and-saucer parade was over, and Kate was free 
to pay a visit to the nursery. But hardly had she time to attract the 
notice of Young Hopeful, who chanced to be too busy destroying 
some new toys to concern himself about anything so unimportant as 
a fond mother, when she was informed of Simon’s arrival. 

Then Kate sailed downstairs and crossed the hall in a prodigious 
flutter. Could it really be their old friend Simon, who seemed to 
have forgotten their existence for four whole years? She felt an odd 
inclination to run away into the shrubbery, and put off the meeting 
for an hour or more ; but she got into the drawing-room somehow, 
and there stood Simon, whose warm grasp of the hand quickly proved 
him to be a man of flesh and blood. For a moment or two Kate 
could only stare at him in silence ; but the self-possession of the big 
bronzed man quickly restored to her the use of her tongue. 

“ Dear old Simon — why, how brown you are !” 

After a separation of four years the remark seemed absurdly in- 
adequate, and they both laughed heartily. 

“ Nice change in the weather, isn’t it, Kate !” he retorted, by way 
of keeping up the farce. But she promptly sat him down in an 
arm-chair, rang for some more tea, and told him not to talk non- 
sense. 

Simon seemed to be changed for the better in many ways, though 
it took Kate a little time to appreciate this. He was less morbid 
and dreamy, and there was a wholesome ring in his cordial voic§ ; it 
was apparent that change and travel had been a beneficial treatment 
for Timon of Chillington. 

When the first excitement was over, and they had settled down to 
rational conversation, Kate found there was little to tell her visitor in 
the way of news. He had either kept himsdf posted up in the affairs' 
of Chillington all the time he was abroad, or had so' far lost interest 
in the place and neighborhood as to lend an unwilling ear to all local 
news— Kate hardly knew which might be the true explanation. As 
for his own travels and adventures, he was ready enough to talk of 
them, as also of his adopted daughter and the progress of her educa- 
tion ; and for some time Kate listened with interest to his recital. 


812 


Presently, however, a waft of nervous apprehension disturbed her ; 
for in the midst of Simon’s discourse she perceived, through the open 
window at his back, a person whom she certainly wished fifty miles 
away at this moment — her sister Nell. She heartily wished now that 
she had warned Nell of this probable arrival, and so given her a 
chance of preparing for a meeting, the awkwardness of which would 
now be increased tenfold. Still, on second thoughts, her policy of 
non-interference could not be other than a sound one — only it seemed 
rather hard on Nell just at present. 

Meanwhile, Nell dawdled slowly across the lawn in an uncertain 
way, which irritated her sister’s tense nerves not a little ; and Simon 
talked cheerfully on without the least suspicion that his listener was 
on tenter-hooks. 

As Nell drew near, her sister rose and walked to the window, hop- 
ing to warn her away by a gesture ; but the former, upon catching 
sight of Kate, spoke at once, and then it was too late. 

“What is the matter with you, Kate? You look as solemn and 
portentous as though — ” 

“ There’s some one come to see us,” said Kate, curtly. 

Then Simon rose and walked to the window, and there was noth- 
ing more to be done. 

Kate stared at them both in a perfectly imbecile fashion, and was 
unable to help out the awkward situation by a word. 

But apparently no help was needed. Nothing could have been, at 
least on the face of it, more flat and commonplace than this meet- 
ing, which should have been a little romance in itself. Simon’s 
opening remarks, for any sentiment they contained, might have 
been taken straight from a guide-book, and Nell at once fell into his 
vein. Their greetings resembled those of old acquaintances on a 
railway platform, who are willing to exchange civilities for a mo- 
ment or two, but rather hope the arrival of their respective trains 
may cut them short. 

Kate was inexpressibly disappointed. 

“To think what he has gone through for her!” she muttered; 
“and now he won’t allow her to thank him even by a glance. He 
declines even to ’receive a friendly word for her. She can do noth- 
ing in the face of such an iced manner as that. He’s more bitter 
than I had imagined.” 

The scene was brief as well as commonplace ; for, after staying 
just as long as propriety demanded, Simon excused himself by say- 
ing that he was anxious to meet Julius, who was expected home 


818 


from the town about this hour, and strolled away towards the west 
lodge gate with that object in view. 

Being thus left alone with Nell, Kate was almost afraid to look at 
her, yet withal was intensely curious to see how she would take this 
disappointment. Would Nell wax tearful and pathetic, or would 
she keep up her pretence of indifference? 

Nell was not long in showing the color of her mood. As she 
stood looking after Simon, who was visible for some distance down 
the drive, she was panting with indignation, and presently ex- 
claimed : 

“ It’s a shame — a cruel shame to treat an old friend so ! And it’s 
not like him to show such unkindness and malice.” 

“ You have no right to criticise him !” Kate retorted with some 
asf^erity. 

“ I thought — I did think — ” continued Nell ; then she stopped 
abruptly. 

“ What do you think, Nell ? Come, I’ve never intruded upon 
your reserve in this connection, so you may as well reward me by 
making a clean breast of your sentiments. You needn’t fear any 
interference on my part. I shall let- you take your own course, 
whatsoever it may be. Nor could I hinder you, for the matter of 
that, for you always were a perfect model of obstinacy.” 

“My course will be no course at all!” cried the young widow, 
flashing another indignant glance after Simon’s retreating figure, 
“for I will have nothing to do with a man who outrages me so. 
Kate, I’ll tell you frankly what I had hoped 1” 

“ No fear about the frankness, once you’ve let your tongue 
loose!” muttered Kate, parenthetically. 

“ I had hoped that when Simon returned it would be as an old 
friend ; and — and I did hope he would give me some chance of 
showing my gratitude — and perhaps restoring at last what rightly 
belongs to him.” 

“Quite so — I see. That is pretty much the line I thought you 
would take, my dear. You want to marry him out of gratitude! 
So far, so good. Any love to be thrown in, may I ask?” 

“ I’ve done with all that long ago.” 

“ Ah, just as I supposed ! You’re so old and ugly now that any 
thought of romance has now become an absurdity ! Well, I quite 
understand your scheme, Nell, and I tell you at once that it won’t 
do. You want to give him your hand and purse, and keep your 
heart to yourself. Now, it’s quite possible that he knows you well 


314 


enough to have made as near a guess at your intentions as I have 
done, and has put on coldness accordingly. Anyhow, it won’t do. 
You want to treat Simon as a shopman, to whom you owe a good 
long bill, and for whom you’re therefore ready to make some sacri- 
fice, and he’s not the man for that kind of barter. Truly, it’s a 
comical situation. In the old days he wanted to marry you, and you 
couldn’t bring yourself to have him; now you want to marry him, 
and he won’t accept you upon any consideration — at least, judging 
from the first scene of the comedy. You’re, in fact, a brace of 
lunatics, as I always said — a fatuous, high-flown, romantic, ridicu- 
lous, tiresome pair — and I’ll have nothing whatever to do with you. 
Fight it out between yourselves by all means ; I sha’n’t stir a finger 
to help or hinder. Make him an offer through your solicitor, if it so 
please you, stating clearly what pin-money you propose to afford 
him, and explaining that you’ll allow him every possible liberty, etc., 
provided that he’s careful not to step beyond the limits of ordinary 
friendship.” 

“ I shall do nothing of the sort, Kate ; nor shall I even speak to 
him again except as a distant acquaintance. I shall avoid your 
house until he’s gone — and if I do meet him in society — ” 

“ Yes, yes — I know all about it, my dear child. Don’t expend all 
this excitement upon me, for it is a mere waste of time. You won’t 
stay and dine, of course ?” 

“ Is it likely ?” 

“ Not in the least. I only asked as a matter of form. But, as the 
man will be back soon, and I must think about going up to dress, 
you had better depart in haste — and by the east lodge, or you might 
chance to come across Sir Ogre again !” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


The family at Bickington found no great difficulty in persuading 
Simon to extend his visit beyond the meagre seven days which he 
had originally named as its probable limit. In fact, the returned 
exile found the atmosphere of the neighborhood far more congenial 
than he expected. 

Perhaps he had not sufficiently taken into consideration how greatly 
the change in public opinion towards himself would affect the ques- 
tion of his happiness ; and had by no means realized how w'arming 
to the heart it is to be greeted with marked cordiality by a dozen 
old acquaintances every time one takes a walk into the town. 
Probably, also, he had feared to become an object of public curi- 
osity ; whereas he now found, to his profound relief, that not even 
the worst busybody in the place seemed moved to make any allusion 
to the past. But what surprised him most of all was that almost 
every one in the neighborhood seemed glad to see him. 

Simon’s old friend, the Vicar of Chillington, hurried over tp visit 
him the moment his arrival at Bickington was made known, and 
his long silent hand -clasp was worth many noisier greetings. Lord 
Bridistow followed almost at Frank Nelson’s heels, welcomed Simon 
as a returning prodigal, and vowed to have him locked up if he ever 
talked of leaving the country again. Many others, too, came in the 
wake of these old friends ; and Lord Bridistow had cause to repeat 
a former phrase of his to the effect that Secretan had educated his 
public up to the point of understanding him. Certainly it did seem 
that Chillington had added a new item of knowledge to its gen- 
eral philosophy of human nature — namely, that a man who takes 
upon himself the burden of other people’s troubles, and gives time 
and thouo’ht to their alleviation, is not necessarily a hypocrite or a 
fool. 

Moreover, some of Lord Timon’s old philanthropic schemes had 
fructified during these four years. A certain benefit society, which 
had once barely survived the shattering effects of Mr. Jackson’s 
manipulation, was now in a flourishing condition. As for the farm 
hospital for the dying, that had from the first been a modest but 


816 


complete success; and the greater establishment at Lymport, built 
a couple of years afterwards by public subscription, undoubtedly 
owed its origin to Simon’s experiment on a small scale at Hollacomb. 

Concerning his latest experiment of all, the guardianship of a 
young child, the general public were naturally little interested ; but 
his friends at Bickington were very curious to see little Rose. 

Thus, as soon as Simon decided upon extending his visit, it was 
requested that the child and her governess should be sent for from 
town — an arrangement upon which Julius Rush commented to his 
wife in this wise : 

“ You’ll be glad enough to be rid of her in a week or two — for 
isn’t one spoiled child scourge enough for one household ?” 

But, to the surprise of every one at Bickington Park, little Rose 
turned out to be under very good control — a bright and frolicsome 
child, but certainly better disciplined than Kate at all expected to 
find Master Julius at six years old. 

Simon had always had a knack of refuting the prophecies of criti- 
cal friends ; but even Kate, who always expected a good deal of him, 
was astonished at his latest achievement. She perceived that he 
must have studied minutely the art of child -handling, and have 
bestowed extraordinary care and pains upon the bringing up of this 
little person, for it was apparent, from the firm hold he had obtained 
of his adopted daughter, that he must have taken a considerable per- 
sonal share in her training and education. “ And probably,” re- 
flected Kate, who was now naturally a student of the child question, 
“the little one has been at the same time unconsciously educating 
him.” 

At any rate, they were all agreed that Rose was a piquant and at- 
tractive little creature, and that the relations between the child and 
her adopted father were of a quaint and Old-World fashion. 

The end of three weeks found the pair still domiciled at Bicking- 
ton, though by this time Simon showed signs of growing restive. 
His four years of wandering seemed to have unfitted him for settling 
down finally in any one spot, and their efforts to persuade the wan- 
derer to cast anchor among his old friends seemed to fall upon deaf 
ears. But, though he continued to speak of his return to the other 
side of the world as a settled plan, they steadily persisted in their 
endeavors to undermine it, each of the party pegging away at him 
in his or her particular fashion. 

Julius, who said little in public, would attack him privately, un- 
der the friendly veil of tobacco. 


817 


“You and I are too old to make new friends, old fellow,” he 
would urge, “ so we must even settle down within hail of one an- 
other. And your old craze, if a trifle subdued, is still in working 
order, as I know very well. You’ll never be happy without a com- 
munity of some sort to work for and worry over, and here’s a place 
ready and willing to let you slave in its interests, now that it has 
learned to understand you. Why, man, you’d take at least a decade 
to work any new district up to this pitch of receptivity !” 

“ Why not settle on your mother’s old family estate,” the squire 
kept asking, “ and oust that intriguing Lady Bountiful of ours, who 
does a deal more harm than people imagine? Her lease is up in 
six or eight months, I believe ; now, why not offer to release her for 
the remainder of her terra, and live at the raanor-house yourself, 
among your own tenants and people? It’s my opinion that Mrs. 
French -Chichester is staying up in town now merely to avoid you. 
And if you would but take root here, maybe we should be rid of 
that dangerous woman for good.” 

“ Little Rose should be educated at home,” that was Kate’s string, 
and she harped on it constantly. 

Now, which of these argumentative weapons gave the flnal stroke 
of grace to his old resolution Simon was never brought to admit; 
but somehow or other his scheme of a second expatriation came to 
be quashed. If questioned about it, he would aver that his change 
of mind must have been due to the weather ; for when he at length 
succumbed, the early summer-tide was just settling down sweetly and 
shyly upon lush pasture and flower-trimmed hedge and all the bosky 
curvings of the Chilling gorge ; and he freely confessed that he had 
seen nothing abroad to compare with this “old June weather” in 
the old country. 

Mrs. French-Chichester consented to forego the remainder of her 
lease for a consideration, and resumed her role of Lady Bountiful 
in another part of the country ; whereupon Simon took possession 
of his mother’s old borne. 

This definite home-coming of Sir Simon Secretan made a consider- 
able stir in the neighborhood, and he soon found the old life, or 
rather a revised and improved version of the same, sitting comfort- 
ably upon him, like some old garment, once cast aside as a misfit, 
but now donned afresh with satisfaction. Whether the old garment 
had been cut to his shape, or his own figure had undergone a change, 
he did not stop to consider, but wisely consented to live his life 
and enjoy it. He accepted the captaincy of the cricket club, which 


318 


Lord Bridistow bad long held in trust for him, and the presidency 
of the Angling Association, as also several other posts which were 
always open to any one willing to give time and money for the ben- 
efit of his neighbors. 

Then there only remained for this reclaimed prodigal to take to 
himself a wife, and certainly a friendly neighborhood seemed bent 
upon thus crowning his happiness. 

For a time, it is true, people held aloof under an impression that 
he would now revive his old inclination for the lady whom he had 
jilted, or who had jilted him — nobody quite knew which. But be- 
fore long it became apparent that he had quite got over that ancient 
weakness. He met Nell in society several times, and the pair were 
at first scrutinized with deep interest; but there was nothing in their 
conduct calculated to cause the least uneasiness to any possessor of 
marriageable daughters. 

Kate remarked, however, that as time went on Nell and Simon 
did attain to a certain mild degree of mutual friendliness. It being 
the summer season, when the countryside woke up according to cus- 
tom, and betook itself to gentle out-door dissipation, and Simon 
being at this time in great request, and really minded to see some- 
thing of his neighbors, it naturally happened that the pair came 
across one another with some frequency. Yet no one could say that 
Simon exerted himself in the smallest degree to bring about these 
meetings. He was willing enough, in his present genial frame of 
mind, to support the boredom of a garden-party, but the presence 
or absence of Nell thereat seemed in nowise to affect his spirits. 

“The fact is” — thus Kate summed up the situation one morning 
after discussing it at some length with her husband and the squire — 
“ the fact is, Nell and Simon have now reached the highest pitch of 
intimacy that they will permit themselves; and Fve quite made up 
my mind that nothing will ever come of it.” 

“Have you?” asked Julius, ironically. “Permit me to doubt 
that; for a woman’s romantic hope has ninety times nine lives. In 
fact, nothing will ever kill it. You’d hope on, my dear, were these 
two tottering gray-headed to their respective graves. How often 
have I insisted that Simon isn’t one to take up another man’s leav- 
ings, the fraction of a woman’s heart, and ‘ orts of her love ’ ? And 
where’s the necessity of marrying him at all? Let him live in peace 
and forget his old troubles, instead of planting a fresh crop.” 

“You’re really mistaken,” Kate insisted. “ I have no more hope 
whatever of destroying Simon’s peace in that way.” 


319 


“ But I have,” put in the old squire ; “ and I’m not agoing to 
drop it to please that captious fellow Julius.” 

They both turned to laugh at the old gentleman ; and Julius 
pressed with mock eagerness for an explanation. 

“ You sha’n’t bully me into giving reasons for my view of the 
case,” chuckled Mr. Rush ; “ but maybe I have one or two, though 
I don’t pretend to be as clever as you young people. You let me 
alone, and happen I shall triumph over you both one of these fine 
days ?” 

“ Look at the group of aspens yonder,” quoth Kate, pointing 
through the breakfast -room window. “Do you perceive how fast 
they’re mellowing? Well, when Simon first arrived they were hardly 
in full leaf; and do you suppose he would be all these months get- 
ting to the point of a mere cool friendship if he had any warmer 
feeling to bestow ?” 

“ Don’t you be too clever and logical, and all that, Kate, for I’m 
not agoing to argue with you. You just give me that note for your 
sister, if it’s done, and in an hour or so I’ll take it over to the Hall, 
for Mrs. Nell and I are great friends, and I’m always glad of an ex- 
cuse for a chat with her.” 

Later on the squire took Kate’s note, and drove away to Monks 
Daraerel. 

As he passed through the gates into the main road, and turned 
his head for a glance back at the house, the old man’s face wore a 
tranquil and happy smile. There was a time, in the consulship of 
Children and McTavish, when he had hated his home, and dreaded 
returning to it after an hour’s drive ; now the Bickington roof cov- 
ered almost everything his heart could desire. 

There was the once terrible Kate, now converted into a kind and 
affectionate daughter; there was the beloved son, whose countenance 
he had once been glad to look upon for some four weeks out of 
the fifty-two, now safely captured and contently established for life 
beneath his own vine and fig-tree ; and up at the nursery window 
his old eyes could just distinguish the figure of the curly-headed 
little grandson for whom he had yearned so long and so ardently. 

Around him the October sunshine was brooding over stubble 
and pasture, over quiet homesteads and rick-yards full of piled-up 
gold, and the solemn tenderness of the waning year wove itself 
into his thoughts as he drove gently along. To the westward of 
his route the smoke of Hollacomb Manor rose from its dense hang- 
ing woods; before him the great moorland spurs which shut in 


320 


Monks Damerel loomed through the warm autumnal haze. He nat- 
urally fell to thinking of Simon and Nell, and wondering whether 
Hollacomb and Monks Damerel would really come together, accord- 
ing to his hopeful forecast. 

The squire was tolerably certain that he had seen deeper into the 
returned exile’s mind than either his son or daughter had done, and 
that Simon’s former sentiments towards Nell had really undergone 
no change ; but he was equally sure that the man’s stubborn pride 
would have nothing to say to o.ffers of friendship or gratitude. The 
question was whether Nell would have anything better to bestow 
upon her old lover ; and the squire had lately been inclined to an- 
swer this in the affirmative. For, as a much keener observer than 
most people imagined, he had gathered an impression that Simon’s 
coldness was in fact in the nature of a well - considered, masterly 
neglect, which was slowly but surely doing its work with the young 
widow. 

Upon reaching the Hall the visitor was informed that Mrs. Clancy 
was in the old garden, somewhere in the direction of the bowling- 
green, whither he at once proceeded in search of her. 

Through the pleached alleys of the formal garden the old man 
paced reflectively along, enjoying its sheltered quietude, and holding 
Kate’s note in his hand for fear of forgetting it. 

He presently emerged through an opening in the great yew hedge 
onto the little raised terrace which ran round the bowling-green ; 
and thereupon a curious feeling that he had walked clean out of real 
life into a fairy-tale took possession of him. 

The green was partly shaded by some ancient ash-trees, but was 
open on the south side, where a low wall bordered the terrace with- 
out interrupting the view of combe and moorland which it com- 
manded. Seated close to the wall, with the mild sunshine flowing 
round her, was the young widow, with a table and some books at 
her elbow. Before her, a six -year -old figure, quaintly attired in 
dead gold and amber as though to match the rich color-chords of 
the fading season, was playing on the green with a ball and some 
big nine-pins. On the edge of the grass stood a tall man, watching 
the busy little figure and placidly smoking. 

The visitor paused for a moment as though loath to disturb this 
idyllic group. 

What struck him especially was that they all seemed engaged in 
ordinary occupations. It seemed improbable that Simon could have 
come over just once in a way, or that Rose was engaged in a new 


321 


game, or that Nell was in the position of a hostess receiving unusual 
visitors. Judging from the every-day atmosphere of the scene the 
squire was inclined to infer that it had been enacted a good many 
times before ; and he soon found his guess to be a correct one. 

Nell greeted him cordially as usual, drawing a chair for the old 
squire beside her own ; and he settled down with a feeling that he 
was joining a family party. 

Little Rose’s prattle quickly disclosed the fact that this game on 
the bowling-green was, in fine weather, the ordinary sequel to her 
morning’s lessons ; that, her books once laid aside, she and Simon 
were in the habit of crossing the brook which separated the two 
properties on this side, and making their way hither by a steep path 
through the woods. 

Thus it was clear that Simon and Nell were a good deal more 
intimate than their observant neighbors and critics were at all aware 
of. On the other hand, it was equally evident to the squire that 
they were not lovers. The unexpected visitor’s presence gave them 
no embarrassment whatever ; nothing approaching to a tender glance 
passed between them ; nor did Simon’s manner exhibit any symp- 
tom of a lover’s elation. In fact, it soon appeared that his mood 
was of rather a gloomy shade this morning. 

From the conversation that followed the new arrival gathered that 
Mrs. Clancy and little Rose had been developing a mutual friendship 
lately, and could now hardly see enough of each other. It seemed 
that Simon, as has been said, brought the child over almost every 
morning for half an hour or so, and that she came again with her 
governess for a longer visit later in the day. The inquisitive old 
gentleman elicited these details by innocent little questions; he also 
ascertained that the little programme had been followed for some 
weeks. 

This explanation, he considered, betrayed rather a droll and piq- 
uant state of things, of which even Kate had not the least concep- 
tion. It delighted him to think how Simon had been overreaching 
all his sharp-eyed neighbors ; yet — yet the man puzzled him some- 
how. Simon’s manner was almost harsh to Nell ; he seemed to 
take a pleasure in differing from everything she said, and in drawing 
little Rose away every time she made a remark to her. Nell seemed 
pained and depressed at his unfriendliness; and the squire fancied 
he could detect in her something approaching to jealousy of Simon’s 
affection for the child. She had the air of one who was being piir- 
poselv kept out in the cold. 

k 


322 


“ Strange, strange !” muttered the looker-on. “ I don’t seem to 
understand the man a bit, for all my boasting ; and Nell is in the 
same predicament. She looked pensive and depressed, poor child, 
from the first ; and now he’s making her worse every minute.” 

“Ah, you want to go home, do you. Miss Fickle?” said Simon, 
presently, swinging the child to the ground. “ There, run and tell 
Mrs. Clancy you’re tired of her already. Take the opportunity of 
being candid while you’re young, for they’ll never let you speak the 
truth when you’re a grown woman.” 

“ I’m tired of you already,” said the child, obediently, holding 
out a morsel of a hand to Nell. 

Simon laughed harshly. The gentle old squire was deeply shocked, 
especially when he saw Nell’s dark eyes filling. 

“ Oh, poor Mrs. Clancy — you mustn’t be so unkind to her. Rose !” 
he cried, hastily. 

But Simon only laughed again. 

“ We’re all alike, you see,” he remarked, carelessly ; “ nothing 
pleases any one of us but change. That is the only secret of happi- 
ness. Rasselas might have discovered so much without fagging 
about among all sorts and conditions of people as he did. Look at 
me now. I’m hardly yet settled in at Hollacomb, yet already grow- 
ing restless. This sober, pensive kind of weather bores me. There’s 
no variety, no excitement in this dead-alive old country. Is a man 
to spend his life shooting corn-fed pheasants, and dining with neigh- 
bors who are already growing sick of him, boring others as thor- 
oughly as he bores himself? In a year’s time. Miss Fickle, yea, in 
half a year’s time, I expect we shall begin our wanderings again. 
We’ll look in at the Cape for a month or two ; then, when the inev- 
itable weariness and staleness supervene, move on to New Zealand, 
as we did before — and so on, and so on; following the old round, 
accepting the fact that life’s a poor dish at best, and change the only 
salt that makes its fiavor tolerable.”' 

“I’m not tired yet — I’ll give you a kiss, Mrs. C’ancy,” murmured 
Rose, approaching Nell as though she thought her in need of sym- 
pathy. 

“You little humbug, don’t pretend to be Sentimental, when the 
only thing you really care for is your grub !” 

“Don’t put her against me,” entreated Nell, “ for I assure you 
that I have few enough friends.” 

“ Oh, everybody labors under that sentimental impression,” Simon 
retorted impatiently, “ the truth being that there’s no such thing as 


323 


friendship. We find a man a good listener, or a possessor of the 
same prejudices as ourselves, or in some way or other gifted with a 
power of ministering to our vanity and egoism, and we call him 
‘ friend ’ ; and he gives us the same meaningless title on like selfish 
grounds. And when either party dies, the other says, ‘ Poor devil !’ 
— and goes on with his book or newspaper.” 

Nell was now bending over the child, placing the small arms round 
her own neck. The squire was hovering over her, at intervals throw- 
ing a fierce glance at her tormentor; while Simon strode up and 
down with the aspect of one who is giving his mind to making other 
people as miserable as himself. 

“ Why — you’re crying, aren’t you ?” whispered little Rose, in a 
wondering tone. 

Certainly Mrs. Clancy’s cheek had a tear on it, and the tender- 
hearted old man was up in arms immediately. 

“You shouldn’t pour out your evil thoughts in that harsh, reck- 
less way, Simon I” he cried, wrathfully. “ You’ve no right to hurt 
people’s feelings in this wanton manner. You make me quite wretch- 
ed, you do, with your cynical remarks. And you can’t mean ’em — 
you can’t dare to mean ’em ! Look at your friendship for my son — 
is that all a sham and a delusion ?” 

“ I don’t suppose my friendship for Julius will suffice to keep me 
another day in this country, once I’ve got thoroughly bored, squire.” 
Simon was now leaning moodily upon the wall, looking away from 
the others. “ Nor do I imagine my departure will affect his happi- 
ness very deeply. No, no ; self-love is the only love to be found on 
this planet of ours.” 

“ Well, if those are your sentiments, I don’t wonder you’re agoing 
to leave us so soon.” 

“ About next Christmas, I fancy. I shall try and hold out till 
then, though I’m so dead tired of life here. Now, Miss Inconstant, 
it’s time you completed your farewells, or I shall be getting into 
trouble with your governess.” 

But the little woman was concerned about her new friend. *, 

“ Poor Mrs. C’ancy !” she muttered, doubtfully ; “ she was cryin’ 
just now, she was.” 

Simon stared at Nell surprisedly. 

“What! have I been boring you with my fit of the morbids?” he 
asked. “ The fact is. I’m not fit company for anybody nowadays. 
In future her governess shall bring over this little maid of a morn- 
ing, Mrs. Clancy — unless you’re bored with her as well as with me, 


324 


by-the-bye? Speak oat, for I sha’n’t be offended. We all like 
A'ariety.” 

“You’re abominably harsh and unkind and unfriendly and churl- 
ish !” cried the squire, with his color mounting. 

“ Don’t waste rebukes on me, squire, for I’m going next month — 
can’t hold out till Christmas, after all. I bore you all on this side 
of the water ; whereas, on the other side, they’ve only half learned 
to be sick of me. It cheers me to think I’m still almost a novelty 
over there. Hang it ! I shall pack up and go next week.” 

Upon this the squire was so full of wrath that he feared to com- 
mit himself to further speech, but glared at Simon as though he 
could have struck him. 

“ I wouldn’t treat — an old — friend ” — he got out the words pres- 
ently with great difficulty — “ as you’ve been a-treating our kind and 
dear and gentle Nell — for — for ever so !” 

Nell smiled upon her protector, but his sympathy tended to fur- 
ther upset her self-control. She turned away, and leaned over the 
low wall as Simon had done a short time since. 

“ But you don’t really care whether I go or not ?” asked Simon. 

She made no answer. They saw that she was crying. 

Then the old man’s wrath melted suddenly away, for he perceived 
a sudden change in Simon’s face. There was a gleam of strange 
happiness in the big man’s eyes. He looked as though he were about 
to step forward and catch the slight figure from the low wall to his 
heart and never let it go again. 

Noting which, the squire walked away along the terrace on tiptoe, 
feeling somewhat unhinged, yet with a glow of deep satisfaction 
spreading through him. He knew that his triumph over Kate and 
Julius was now an assured thing. It might not come yet, there 
might be months to wait ; but he no longer felt any doubt as to its 
final consummation. 

“I’ll keep it dark,” he muttered, “I’ll not tell even Kate. She 
deserves to be kept out in the cold for her scepticism. How long 
^ull if be, 1 wonder? Will they come to an understanding before 
the leaves arc quite gone ?” 

He turned for a final glance before passing through the opening 
in the yew hedge. 

Simon had drawn no nearer to Nell. He was standing a little 
apart, waiting for her to recover, holding his little charge by the 
hand. The mild sunlight was bathing the old green and the ter- 
race and the three figures by the wall. 


325 


“ Well, ril give them till Christmas,” concluded the departing 
squire. 

But this old man with the young heart was a little premature in 
his forecast ; for the ash-trees overhanging the bowling-green were 
budding once more, and the birds in the combe below were singing 
spring paeans on the morning of his final triumph over his son and 
daughter. 


THE END 





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